


The Goblet of Fire as told by John Watson

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Potterlock - Fandom, Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Triwizard Tournament being hosted at Hogwarts, what promises to be an exciting year for John may just prove even more eventful than even he could hope for. With his relationship with Cedric finally starting to blossom, could he finally be getting over Sherlock, or will his desperate feelings for the young genius win out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was 4:25 on Monday morning. The watery yellow sunlight was just creeping its way over the tops of the trees in the distance, and John Watson was lying flat on his face in the damp grass.

“Oops,” Greg Lestrade chuckled, using John as a leaning post to heave himself to his feet. “Sorry, mate.”

“Don’t mention it,” John muttered, raising himself into a kneeling position and wiping the green stains from his hands. “We there?”

“Yep,” Greg secured the backpack on his shoulders and grinned early round the deserted moorland around them.

“Just over there,” Greg’s father pointed to a point some fifteen feet away, where two strange-attired wizards were standing. Gideon Lestrade himself’s clothing was rather suspicious, John thought. It was just as well they hadn’t met any early-morning Muggle hikers on their way to the Portkey that had transported them here. Both he and Greg were wearing ordinary jeans, jumpers and trainers, but Mr. Lestrade was sporting a Hawaiian shirt in varying shades of purple and green, beige jodhpurs tucked into green wellington boots, a large frock coat and, to top it all off, a Stetson crammed onto his greying-brown hair. On the whole, John had almost swallowed his tonsils trying not to laugh when he’d met up with the two Lestrade’s that morning. The fact that Mr. Lestrade normally looked so smart and intimidating in his wizard’s robes did nothing to quell John’s amusement.

John followed the two Lestrades over to the two waiting wizards, one of whom John noticed was standing by a large box full of used Portkeys. Mr. Lestrade added their punctured football to the pile and greeted one of the men (who was wearing a kilt paired with an orange poncho) with a friendly smile.

“How you doing, Basil?”

“Bloody knackered, Gideon,” the wizard named Basil said with a pointed yawn. “Been here since twelve. Could do with a good dose of Firewhiskey, to tell the truth.”

Mr. Lestrade smiled sympathetically and adjusted his hat. “Which field are we in?”

“Second,” said Basil. “About a quarter of a mile that way. Campsite manager’s Mr. Payne.”

“Cheers,” Mr. Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder and started off across the moor. “Come on, boys.”

John’s stomach started to squirm in excitement as they made their way through the misty landscape. He’d been very pleasantly when he’d received the owl from Greg three days ago inviting him to accompany him and his father to Quidditch World Cup, since his older brother was no longer able to attend.

By the time they reached the campsite, John’s feet were freezing and he was just about ready to collapse back into bed. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience getting up at the crack of dawn to be catapulted through space and consequentially landed on by the much-bigger Greg. Still, that evening they’d be making their way through the wood to the pitch, so he wasn’t complaining.

While Mr. Lestrade paid the Muggle watchman for their camping space, John squinted through the murky scenery to make out the first tents pitched some metres away. Most of them looked fairly normal, but he spotted one with a curling chimney and another with a large purple campfire outside. From the slightly dazed expression on Mr. Payne’s face, John could tell he’d been placed under some kind of Memory Charm to prevent him from becoming too suspicious.

“We’re just up there,” Mr. Lestrade pointed to a spot by the copse of trees up the slope.

By the time they’d set up the tents (which, although Greg had told John would be magically enlarged on the inside, still surprised him), the mist was starting to fade and more campers were appearing on the site. Every now and again John saw people he knew from school – including one of his best friends, Cedric Diggory.

Cedric was walking alongside his father, and his handsome face broke into a wide smile when he caught sight of John running towards him.

“Hey!” John said, a little breathlessly.

“Hi,” Cedric pulled him into a one-armed hug. “I was looking out for you. Go on, Dad, I’ll be there in a sec.”

Amos Diggory nodded to his son and continued up the hill towards a vacated spot marked with a named sign.

“Excited?” Cedric asked John, whose insides were fluttering like they always did in the older boy’s company.

“Totally,” John beamed. “Where are you sitting in the stadium?”

“Section H, seat 27,” Cedric said. “You?”

“Section R,” John was a little disappointed they wouldn’t be sitting nearer each other, but that still didn’t quell the elation at seeing the boy he’d harboured a secret crush for since the beginning of last year.

“Sherlock not with you, then?” Cedric asked, and although it might have been wishful thinking, John thought he sounded like he was making an effort to ask the question as casually as possible.

“Just Greg. Mycroft could’ve probably gotten us top-box seats but Sherlock turned him down.”

“Still,” Cedric said. “Least we can hang out before the game starts. I’d better go help Dad. See you later, John.”

John watched Cedric’s tall stature as he returned to his father, who was now assembling a two-man tent similar to the one the Lestrades had brought, and felt extremely glad he’d thought to style his hair before they’d left that morning. He also hoped Cedric hadn’t noticed the large grass stains on his knees. It was unlikely Cedric would care, but John always liked to make a good impression.

Mr. Lestrade and Greg were sitting beside a small campfire when John returned, and Mr. Lestrade handed him a sandwich as he sat down beside them.

“I swear,” he said, shaking his head at a tent some metres from theirs, whose inhabitants were roasting a large hunk of meat over a roaring blue fire, “there’s hardly any point in enforcing anti-Muggle security measures with all this lot around.”

“Well, there’s only that one Muggle,” Greg said, taking a large bite of bread, “and he didn’t seem too bothered.”

“That’ll be the Memory Charm,” Mr. Lestrade took a swig of pumpkin juice from the flask in his pack and offered a large box of biscuits to John.

John had to admit he was rather glad of Sherlock’s absence, as it meant he could enjoy the match and Cedric’s company without having to put up with the condescending looks and sarcastic comments his friend would have been certain to share. After a while, Cedric wandered over with a large kettle in one hand and asked John if he fancied getting some water from the tap across the field. Kettles in hand, they meandered over the grass towards the queue, chatting idly about their respective summers and trying to predict the outcome of the upcoming match.

“You’ve never seen Krum play, have you?” Cedric asked, waving to someone John recognised as a Hufflepuff seventh year.

“No. Is he good?”

“Brilliant,” Cedric said fervently. “Youngest member of the team but definitely the best. Ireland have got a pretty decent line-up too, and with Ryan back in as Keeper, I reckon they’ll stand a good chance of winning.”

John lapped up every fact Cedric threw into the conversation, a little awkward at his own lack of knowledge regarded famous Quidditch team statistics, but eager to learn the most he could about the players before the match began. He’d never heard Cedric talk so enthusiastically about anything before, and loved the way his dark grey eyes lit up as he described each of the players’ signature moves and which manoeuvres they might employ in the game.  
The rest of the day was a mash-up of excitement and suspense, and by the time the gong sounded to signal the beginning of the game, John and Greg were wound up with anticipation and laden with souvenirs bought from the salesmen at lunchtime. Both boys were sporting green hats with dancing shamrocks, and Mr. Lestrade had pinned a luminous green rosette to the front of his robes (having discarded his jumbled Muggle getup). John also had a small moving figure of Aiden Lynch, the Irish Captain and Seeker, a badge depicting Viktor Krum’s scowling face, and a programme bought for him by Cedric, who was clutching a large green flag and a pair of golden binoculars in his hand.

“C’mon!” Greg urged John as they all trouped towards the trees that separated the campsite from the pitch. Excitement bubbled in John’s stomach like a lit firework, and he squeezed his figurine of Lynch so tightly it began to protest loudly in his pocket.

They parted ways from the Diggorys at the staircase that led to the upper levels of the stadium, Cedric giving John a wide grin and a wave as they were shoved down a different aisle by a group of rowdy wizards speaking loud Bulgarian.

They had just taken their seats in Section R, when a booming voice rose over the noise of the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen. . . welcome!”

John could hardly see for the waves of red and green flags and dancing hats as the commentator announced first the teams’ respective mascots, then the players themselves. Roars of appreciation erupted all around them, and John felt fairly certain his hearing would be significantly depleted the next day.

The game was incredible – there was no other word for it. John, Greg and even Mr. Lestrade screamed themselves hoarse every time Ireland scored, and Greg almost fell from his seat in shock as Lynch smashed into the ground after Krum’s successful attempt at the Wronksi Feint. By the time the match came to its spectacular finale, John’s hands were sore from clapping and both he and Greg were buzzing with energy as they left the stadium.

Mr. Lestrade instructed them both to get a good night’s sleep, as he had arranged an early Portkey to take them home the next morning, but even he couldn’t resist joining in as they went over the finer details of the game well into the small hours. He had just suggested for the fifth time that they try and get some sleep, when a loud bang from just outside the tent made all three of them jump.

“What the—?” Mr. Lestrade moved to the mouth of the tent and stuck his head through the flaps. Another deafening BANG seemed to make the whole canvas shake, and Mr. Lestrade withdrew his head and grabbed his wand from the table.

“Boys, put your coats on, now!”

Alarmed by the urgency in his voice and expression, Greg and John did as they were told without question, John’s fingers tightening on his own wand tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Greg asked nervously as they followed Mr. Lestrade from the tent. People were running about, yelling, crying, trying to get away from some commotion at the centre of the campsite. John could just about make out a large, tight-knit group of people moving through the tents, blasting tents out of their way and laughing mercilessly.

“Get into the woods,” Mr. Lestrade said, pointing to the trees up the hill. “Stay together – I’ll come and find you later, okay?”

“But what—?”

“Do as I say,” Mr. Lestrade said sternly, and joined a small group of wizards – all with their wands out – advancing on the mob.

“C’mon,” Greg muttered, grabbing John’s sleeve and leading them to the copse. The gaps between the trees were already littered with frightened people – mostly school-kids like themselves trying to avoid the riot. John caught sight of Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan talking in hushed voices next to a nearby tree, with a woman who looked like she could be Seamus’s mother, but Greg pulled him past and deeper into the wood. They were close to the pitch now. John wondered momentarily how long the stadium would stand before the Ministry took it down. Or would they just leave it there for the next match?

“Here,” Greg tugged John down onto the ground against the trunk of an old beech tree and took a couple of deep breaths. The noise and commotion sounded far away now, but John still felt nervous.

“Will your dad be okay?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine,” Greg said, but he too looked worried. “Jesus. What’s going on d’you reckon?”

“Your guess’s as good as mine,” John shrugged. “Do these things always end in riots?”

“Dunno,” Greg shrugged.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes, the occasional explosion from the campsite making them jump.

Cedric must be out there somewhere, John thought to himself. He was seventeen now – legally an adult by wizarding standards, perfectly liable to aid his father in subduing the mob, but John hoped he wasn’t. Cedric was brilliant and all but John didn’t like the idea of him facing off against full-grown wizards who were obviously dangerous.

After a while, it seemed like the riot was drawing to a close. They hadn’t heard any explosions for a time and people were starting to return to the campsite.

“Should we go too?” John asked. Greg nodded and they rose to their feet.

“Let’s go back to the tent,” he said. “Slowly, though – we might see Dad on the way.”

Making a mental note to omit this part of the night from the story he’d tell his parents upon his return home, John followed Greg through the trees back towards the open space. They could just make out the wreckage of a nearby tent, when someone close by screamed. Wheeling round, the boys saw a young girl in a flannel dressing-gown, clutching a teenage boy in striped pyjamas. Both of them were staring upwards through the canopy to the stars. John and Greg raised their own eyes to the heavens, and Greg gave a loud gasp. Floating some hundred feet above the ground was the enormous image of a ghostly skull, its serpentine tongue entwining itself round and round in slow circles.

The wood was alive with screams of horror now. John had no idea what the skull was supposed to symbolise, but he guessed it must have something to do with Lord Voldemort – he couldn’t imagine anything else causing such a panic. He now wished Sherlock was with them. He might be sarcastic and condescending, but he knew how to keep his head in a crisis. He’d know exactly what they should do. As it was, they were stumbling over roots and fallen leaves in no particular direction at all.

They broke out from the cover of the trees and found themselves a short distance away from the tap Cedric and John had drawn water from less than twelve hours ago. This side of the field looked relatively deserted – just a few frightened people trying to patch their tents back together and extinguishing fires with water from their wands.

“The tent’s somewhere over there,” John said, pointing. “Come on.”

They picked their way slowly through the wreckage. People seemed to be calming down a little bit, though the image of the sinister skull was still etched like a cloud on the dark sky. Then John heard his name being called. Turning round, he saw the slender figure of. . . Cedric! Running towards him, his wand in one hand, his clothes torn in places, but otherwise unharmed.

“John!” Cedric gasped, and drew John into a tight hug before he could say anything. “Oh, thank God, thank God, you’re okay!”

John buried his face in Cedric’s shirt. He smelt like sweat and smoke.

“I was so worried,” Cedric said, his mouth against the top of John’s head, his breath ruffling his hair. “Then the Mark appeared and. . .”

“I’m fine,” John said. “I’m just glad you are.”

Cedric pulled away and placed his hands either side of John’s face, his dark eyes staring intently into John’s, his mouth open. His fingers moved round to the back of John’s head, and John was suddenly struck by how much closer he seemed, how if he just moved a little bit closer their lips would touch. . .

“Cedric!”

Cedric’s hands let go of John as though burned by a hot wire. A figure in the distance was calling for him, motioning for him to return.

“My dad,” Cedric said numbly. “I’d better go. Get back to your tent, John.”

John stared after his older friend as he hastened back to his father. It wasn’t until he felt Greg’s hand on his shoulder that he finally looked away.

“Blimey, mate,” Greg muttered. “For one minute there—”

“I know,” John said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

For one incredible moment, he’d been certain Cedric Diggory had been about to kiss him.

 

John was just about ready to collapse as he opened his bedroom door and flung his rucksack on the floor. What. A. Night. He and the Lestrades had taken a Portkey back at four in the morning, after which John had been transported by side-along Apparition (an experience he wasn’t keen to repeat any time soon) by Mr. Lestrade back to his own house.

Still fully-dressed, John dropped down onto his bed and fell almost immediately asleep, despite his mind full to bursting point with the events of the night – the screams, running, Voldemort’s Mark in the sky, and Cedric, his face moving closer to John’s, his lips parted as though they would touch his. . .

It was almost eleven-thirty by the time John awoke again to the sound of his mother exclaiming her surprise at his return. He relayed the match to her and his father in as much detail as he could over breakfast, but decided they really didn’t need to know about the riot, since his mother had been nervous enough to let him go as it was. He didn’t want to prove her right. He was just explaining how Viktor Krum had fooled Lynch into losing the Snitch, when a soft flutter of wings announced the arrival of a splendid brown owl, which he recognised as Cedric’s.

“Hello,” John said, eyeing the owl – Juniper – a little nervously.

Juniper stuck out her leg for John to remove the large parchment letter attached to it, then flew up to rest atop the fridge. John opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

_John,_   
_I know it’s been only a couple of hours since we last saw each other, but I wanted to make sure you were alright. Also, I feel I should explain myself. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable when we met up again on the campsite. I wish I could say I don’t know what came over me, but that would be a lie. I could say everything in this letter, but while I’m no Gryffindor, I don’t like to think of myself as a coward. If there’s any way we could meet up sometime soon for me to explain myself fully, I’d really appreciate it. Let me know ASAP._   
_All the best,_   
_Cedric_

John’s fingers trembled slightly as he read the letter again. Then he remembered both his parents were looking at him and he took a (what he hoped was casual) bite of toast.

“It’s from Cedric,” he said, trying his best to keep the tremor out of his voice. “He wants to hang out sometime.”

“Oh, lovely,” his mother smiled. “You should invite him round sometime.”

“Yeah,” John smiled back, his mouth as dry as the parchment in his hands. “Well, gonna reply now.”

He pushed the plate of unfinished toast away from him and hurried upstairs to his room. Hector hooted happily to see him and ruffled his feather.

“Code red, Hec,” John muttered to his owl. “All systems go.”

He sat down at his desk and pulled a fresh piece of parchment towards him, dipping his nearest quill in an ink bottle.

_Cedric,_   
_I’m doing well, thanks. Fell straight to sleep when I got back! Don’t worry about what happened – I was so happy to see you were okay. I think meeting up is a great idea. Tomorrow a good idea? We can meet in the town near where I live – Hunters Meet, it’s called, I’ve mentioned it before. We can meet outside the Library at 3:00? Let me know._   
_John_

He took the letter back downstairs and attached it to Juniper’s leg, taking her over to the window and letting her fly out before he had a chance to change his mind. As he watched her disappear into the clouds, he felt an anxious stirring in the pit of his stomach. Tomorrow he could either become the happiest teenage boy in Britain, or be facing the biggest let-down since the dawn of time.

God help him.   



	2. Chapter 2

Once Juniper had flown out of sight, John collapsed back down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, a thousand and one thoughts buzzing through his head. What would he do if Cedric did like him? He doubted the news that Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts’ golden boy, was in a relationship with John Watson – a Gryffindor four years his junior – would go unquestioned by the rest of the school. If it were true, would Cedric want to go public with it, or would he request they keep it under wraps when people were around? John wondered if Cedric had confided in any of his friends about all this. Probably not. His parents, maybe?

John sighed deeply and ran his hands over his face, pressing down on his eyelids so white lights burst in front of his eyes. What were the chances, really? Cedric was popular, handsome, Quidditch Captain. John wasn’t anyone special – just a nondescript Gryffindor who was friends with Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock. What would he have to say about it? He wasn’t exactly the first person John would run to for advice on this – that would be Molly or even Lestrade. Sherlock was positively Vulcan with his logic and emotions.

“John?”

John sat up. He’d imagined it, surely. He’d been thinking about Sherlock and thought he’d heard his voice. There’s no way Sherlock could be—

“John!”

The bedroom door flung open and a human tornado in a long dark coat came pelting through, following by John’s bemused-looking mother. Sherlock’s face was white, his curly hair un-brushed, as he stood staring at John like they’d not seen each other for years, a broomstick still clutched in one hand.

“Sherlock!” John leapt to his feet. “What’re you doing here?”

“The World Cup. I heard. I thought maybe—”

“I’m fine,” John said. “Look, not even a scratch.”

Sherlock’s hands flew out and gripped John almost painfully by the upper-arms.

“Ow. Sherlock, what—?”

Then – unbelievably, miraculously – Sherlock pulled John towards him and hugged him. Really hugged him. John’s arms were squashed at odd angles between their bodies, Sherlock’s long-fingered hands digging into the back of his T-shirt. John eased his arms free and wrapped them around his friend’s thin torso, breathing in his scent. He could see his mother smiling tenderly at the two boys before backing out of the room and closing the door.

“Sherlock,” John said gently into his shirt – a purple affair whose buttons were digging into the side of his face. “It’s okay.”

“I was scared, John,” Sherlock said in a tiny voice. “It was. . . I didn’t. . .”

“It’s okay,” John repeated, reached up to stroke the back of Sherlock’s curly head. He could feel his heart pounding at this new closeness, and hoped Sherlock didn’t notice.

“Your heart’s racing.”

Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said with a breathless laugh. “You surprised me. How long did it take you to get here?”

“Two hours,” Sherlock said, finally detaching himself from John, but still keeping his hands on his shoulders. 

“But what if anyone saw you?”

“I used a Disillusionment charm,” Sherlock said. “I would have asked Mycroft to Apparate me here but he’s still working things out at the Ministry. I couldn’t believe it – Death Eaters.”

“What?” 

“You-Know-Who’s followers.”

“Seriously? That’s who they were?”

“That’s what Mycroft said. He said there’s been a few casualties and I hadn’t heard from you and. . .”

“I was going to write,” John said. “But Cedric. . . there’ve been things going on.”

Sherlock let go of John’s shoulders like they’d scalded him. “Diggory?” he said sharply. “What things?”

John felt his face flush, not sure what to tell him. “Well, he wrote to me. Asked how I was, y’know?”

“And you wrote back?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You wrote to him but not to me.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. 

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly, panicking a little. “It’s just he asked and—”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John’s desk, where Cedric’s letter lay like the evidence of some ghastly crime. John saw his eyes flit over the words.

“What does he need to explain?” he asked. His voice was calm but his expression was cold. 

John said. Now it came to it he wanted nothing less than to tell Sherlock about what had happened.

“He kissed you, didn’t he?” 

“How did—?”

“For God’s sake, your pupils are the size of saucers, John,” Sherlock snapped. “And if I were to do this,” he grabbed John’s hand and pressed two fingers hard against the inside of his wrist. “There – quickened pulse.”

“Let go,” John jerked his hand away. “No, he didn’t kiss me. But he nearly did. And he wants to meet to talk about it.”

“And you’re going.”

“Yes.”

“He snaps his fingers and you go running.” Sherlock said.

“He doesn’t have to,” John retorted. “I’d go anyway.”

There was a brief silence, in which the two boys stared at each other with grim determination. Then Sherlock burst out, “Would you run to me?”

John blinked, startled by the question. “What?”

“If I snapped my fingers,” he demonstrated with his left hand. “Would you come running to me?”

Despite his annoyance, John couldn’t hold back a smile. “What d’you think I’ve been doing for the past three years?” he said, his voice softer now. He knew it wasn’t in Sherlock’s nature to admit to jealousy – it was an emotion he’d consider beneath his intellect – but this was close enough.

“But it’s not the same with Diggory,” Sherlock said. “You look at him differently. Why?”

“What?”

“What’s so special about him? Why does he matter so much to you?”

“Sherlock, why’re you being like this? You’ve never been this jealous of Molly or Greg.”

“I’m not jealous. Besides, they’re not a threat.”

“Oh?” John said, raising an eyebrow, and Sherlock looked like he was inwardly cursing himself. “You think Cedric’s a threat? To what?”

Sherlock considered his answer for a very long time, his water-blue eyes never once leaving John’s face. Finally, he conceded to: “You tell me.”

John’s head was in a total shambles. He knew what he wanted to say, what he wanted to be true, but exactly how much truth there would be in it he didn’t know. He tried to imagine what could be going on inside Sherlock’s mind at that moment – it was like trying to remember something he’d never seen. He never imagined a friendship could turn into such hard work. He felt complete torn – on one hand he had good, kind, generous, open-hearted Cedric Diggory. One the other, brilliant, complicated, infuriating, amazing Sherlock bloody Holmes. But he couldn’t go on like this. What was it that made a Gryffindor? Surely it was braver to face up to the consequences of his true feelings than go on hiding them like a frightened kid. He needed to be honest. Moreover, he wanted to be. With Sherlock, Cedric, and himself.

“Sherlock,” he said, taking an almost impossibly deep breath. “I don’t know how you feel about me, but you’ve got to know that I’ve liked you for a very long time. You’re too smart not too, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock didn’t respond so he continued, somewhat breathlessly.

“Look, I really like Cedric too, but it’s totally different. He’s not like you, which is kind of a good and a bad thing, I guess. I honestly think he likes me too, and I’m going to be meet him because it hurts less to be with someone who feels the same that to be hopelessly chasing someone who never will. D’you understand?”  
Sherlock seemed, for possibly the first time since John had met him, speechless. He was just staring, expressionless, his mouth partially open. 

“I don’t feel the same.”

He’s been expected it, but the offhand comment still struck a blow to John’s gut. He forced himself to sound calm as he responded, “Yes, I know. That’s the point. You don’t feel that way about anyone. Which is why I’m going to Cedric.”

“But why do you need him?”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice broke in exasperation. “I’m not like you – I’m normal. I need attention, I need someone who wants to touch me.”

He felt his face flush beet red after the words slipped out, but Sherlock seemed not to have noticed the double-meaning in his phrasing. 

“So you’re choosing Diggory over me.”

“Not as a friend,” John said, taking a step towards his friend. “You’re still my best friend.”

“But you prefer his company to mine.”

“It’s not like that.” John was so frustrated he wanted to punch something. Moreover, Sherlock. “Just because I fancy Cedric doesn’t mean I don’t want to hang out with you anymore. Hell, I’ve been in love with you since—”  
He almost bit his tongue in a last-second attempt to keep the words from escaping, but it was obviously too late. Sherlock blinked, the spell seeming to break on his still-processing mind. His haughty eyebrows knitted together.

“You’re in love with me.”

It was a statement, not an enquiry. Now it was John’s turn to be speechless.

“John,” Sherlock said. “Not that I’m not flattered. Well, not really. But you know I’m, well. . . married to my work. I can’t afford any distractions.”

“What ‘work’?” John said, finding his tongue again at Sherlock’s cold indifference. “You mean your ‘deductions’. You know everyone thinks you’re a freak, don’t you?”

It was a low blow. Way lower than he’d meant. He just wanted Sherlock to know something of how it felt to have your feelings thrown in your face, however futile they might have been in the first place. So, he was a distraction, was he? It was the cold, hard proof that he’d needed to know Cedric was the right choice to follow. He clearly always had been.  
Sherlock didn’t look hurt, or even remotely concerned, at John’s harsh comment.

“I need you to go now.” John said blankly.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just took hold of the broomstick he’d propped against the wall walked from the room – no passing jibe, no backward glance, leaving John feeling about as empty he could have imagined he would were this day to come.

 

  
Sherlock waited until he was right at the end of the Watsons’ driveway before withdrawing his wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and performing the Disillusionment charm on himself, first checking that nobody was looking, and then straddling him broom, kicking himself into the air. There was a dull numbness gnawing inside his ribs that he couldn’t explain. It had burst into life when John had used the word “freak”. He supposed it was a natural reaction to hearing that word said to him again – this time from someone significantly more meaningful than the kids who used to yell it at him when he was small, back when magic would sometimes just escape from him without his control. He vividly remembered a time when he’d been ambushed by a group of older boys, when they saw him making the leaves fly in formation around his head. He’d been seven at the time, and rather small and skinny for his age, not having had his first growth spurt. They’d pulled his hair and given him Chinese burns, leaving him stinging and confused in their wake.

Then there was the peculiar ache that had somehow worked itself into a knot in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick and was finding it annoyingly hard to swallow. He didn’t know what to do to make it stop. His body chose this moment to answer his question for him – the corners of his eyes began to prickle, and his vision suddenly became unfocused and distorted by the tears fighting for their release onto his cheeks. He furiously wiped them away with the back of his hand, yet they continued to resurface with a resilience they’d not shown for a long time. Not since the days when his feet had dragged him home, his clothes scuffed and dirty, his arms red and his lip often sporting a swelling.

Sherlock’s mind presented him with an unexpected and entirely unwanted image of John meeting Diggory the next day. He envisioned Diggory confessing his feelings for John, and John looking so happy, the two of them holding hands as they moved to some secluded place to kiss. . .

Sherlock’s stomach lurched and for a moment he wondered if he was going to be sick. He was losing altitude rather quickly, and just managed to touch the ground with his stumbling feet before staggering to a kneeling position and allowing the tears to come thick and fast, hot against his skin. It hurt so much inside, yet somehow felt good to let it out, like a poison that had long been disabling him, infecting him. Any person nearby who could have seen or heard him might have thought someone had broken his heart, even if he couldn’t have guessed it himself. 

 

  
John’s heart was thudding as he stood outside the library, a polystyrene cup of tea in one hand, his eyes roaming up and down the street, crowded with late afternoon shoppers. He couldn’t remember ever being so nervous in his life, and his palms were starting to sweat. His mind was racing with thought-out ideas and prepared speeches he’d concocted in the past twenty-four hours, but he knew that the minute he saw Cedric they’d go flying into the ether with no regard for his situation.

The clock on the town hall struck three, and John’s heart gave an uncomfortable leap. Couldn’t be too much longer – Cedric was rarely late for anything. He just wished he could fast-forward five hours when this would all be over, and he would either be jumping with jubilation or burying his head in a pit of sand somewhere.

It’d taken him almost three hours to get ready that morning. He’d wanted to look effortlessly attractive without actually appearing to be trying. In the end he’d gone for his least-faded pair of jeans and a dark blue T-shirt that hugged his torso just enough to show he’d lost the small amount of puppy-fat he’d sported for the last two years. His hair, just long enough to style, was spiked with the smallest amount of wax, and he’d sprayed himself with some Lynx he’d found in his parents’ bathroom. A couple of girls his age had given him interested looks as they’d passed, so he was feeling more confident than he had when he’d left the house that morning.

“John.”

The way John started, his feet actually leaving the ground, his cup of tea equally parting company with his hand, must have looked pretty comical, but Cedric had the decency not to laugh, although he couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” John inwardly winced at how weedy and nervous his voice sounded, but cleared his throat and carried on regardless.

“D’you. . . um, fancy getting a drink. . . or something?”

“Sure,” Cedric glanced at the spilled tea on the pavement at their feet. “I’ll buy.”

They walked down the street, John leading the way slightly towards his favourite coffee shop, in silence. John was aware at the not-so-subtle stares they were receiving from various girls they passed – mostly at Cedric, but also at John. He knew some of them from the Muggle school he’d attended before going to Hogwarts and from around town, and knew they were all thinking the same thing – “What’s a gorgeous guy like that doing with John Watson?”

Pushing this rather insulting thought from his mind, John pushed the door of The Coffee House open and stepped aside to let Cedric through first. They ordered two teas, and chose a table near the back beside the window. For a minute, they stirred their drinks and didn’t look at each other. It was weird. Normally being around Cedric was so easy – more often than not easier than being with Sherlock— no, he wasn’t going to think about him. This day was about Cedric. Cedric and him – no-one else.

Certainly not Sherlock. No, stop thinking his name, stop—

“John?”

John started out of his reverie, glancing up to see Cedric was now looking at him, and was struck by how exceptionally handsome he was – more so possibly than Sh— Than You-Know-Who. Then John was struck by an uncontrollable desire to laugh, imagining Sherlock and Cedric in a beauty contest with Lord Voldemort. God, he was hysterical.

“John, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a long time,” Cedric said quickly, sounding tense. John blinked, surprised. Cedric Diggory was nervous. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow. “Y-yeah?”

Cedric nodded. “I’ve been talking about it a lot with Cho. . .”

“Cho Chang?” John remembered a pretty Asian girl from the year above him in Ravenclaw. 

“Yeah, she’s a mate,” Cedric cleared his throat. “And, well, she basically said I need to be honest.”

“Okay,” John’s head was starting to swim in anticipation.

“I. . .” he cleared his throat again, taking another cup of tea. “Well, the long and short of it is. . . I’m gay.”

“Me too,” John said, much too quickly. Cedric smiled fondly at him.

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “That’s kind of why I wanted to tell you.” He slowly reached out across the table and placed his hand over John’s – slightly trembling – fingers. “You’re really cute, John.”  
He wanted to say thank you, but his voice seemed to have stuck to the back of his throat, allowing him to utter little else than,

“Nnnmgh.”

Cedric laughed, making John’s stomach swoop. “So, um,” he spluttered, forcing his vocal chords to co-operate, “have you told your parents?”

The smile faded a little from Cedric’s face and he dropped his eyes to the table. “No,” he admitted. “I think Mum would be okay with it but Dad. . . well, he’s pretty. . . traditional. I think he’s always hoped me and Cho would get together. We’ve been friends since we were kids. She’s too much like a sister and, well. . .”

“A girl.”

“Exactly,” he looked up again. “I was going to tell them when. . . well, that’s sort of the second thing I wanted to say.” He leaned forward and gazed right into John’s eyes, who felt his body temperature escalate rather alarmingly. “I really like you. God, that sounds childish, doesn’t it?”

“No,” John said, his voice now unfortunately high-pitched. “It’s fine.”

“Well,” Cedric said. “I’m sure I can still put it a better way.”

He numbly felt Cedric slowly weave his long fingers through his. The older boy’s face was entirely serious as he stared across the table at him.

“I love you, John.”  
  



	3. Chapter 3

John’s head was spinning. He couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t imagined the words Cedric had just said to him. All he could have hoped for was that Cedric liked him, even just the tiniest bit, in that way. And now here he was speaking the three words that almost every Hogwarts girl (and he was sure some of the other boys) would give their wands to hear him say to them. And he was saying them to _him_ – John Just-Your-Average-Gryffindor Watson. He felt like he was going to laugh and cry and explode and be sick all at once. And the fact that Cedric – _Cedric_ – was looking at him with such nervous anticipation, as if he thought there might be a chance John would reject him. It was so bizarre that John had to resist dousing himself in boiling tea just to check it wasn’t a dream.

  But how to answer?

  It seemed like a stupid, ridiculous question to be asking himself in light of the situation. Seriously, he was having to _think_ about this?! He’d never said “I love you” to anyone before. Romantically, at any rate. It should have been a no-brainer – he would respond in kind to Cedric’s confession and they would go on to kiss and start a relationship. Right? But. . . There it was. Sherlock’s face rising to the surface of his mind. His stupid, smug, self-absorbed, sodding perfect face. It felt. . . wrong, somehow, to say those words to anyone else other than him. But why? Sherlock was the last person on Earth who would respond gladly to those words, or to say them himself. John really liked Cedric, and fancied the pants off him, but did he _love_ him? Actually, genuinely love him? It seemed like such a big word now, and he was mentally kicking himself for even _having_ this internal debate? What was the matter with him? This was all Sherlock’s fault, for swanning into John’s life three years ago, dropping books on his head and dislodging everything John had once thought logical. The logical thing would be to fall for someone normal – someone to whom intellect and rationality _weren’t_ the final words in life, the only things worth functioning for. The fucking logical thing would be to say yes to Cedric right now. Cedric, who even now was starting to look like he was regretting his words as John’s silence trailed on. _For God’s sake, SAY SOMETHING!_ John’s mind bellowed at him from all corners of his head.

  “Are you sure?”

  In an ideal universe, they weren’t the three words he would have said, nor were they the words Cedric would have undoubtedly have wanted to hear, but at least they were words at all. Cedric sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It was lighter than Sherlock’s – the sun from the window behind him bringing out mahogany highlights. Apart from this, the two boys did share some physical attributes – pale skin, straight nose, strong jaw, long, clever fingers. However, Cedric’s eyes were softer, his full lips more likely to be found smiling, his body broader and more muscular. Jesus, John was turning himself on.

  “John,” Cedric said. “I think about you pretty much all the time. My heart goes crazy whenever you’re around. God, sometimes when you smile I think it’s going to _explode_. You’re the most adorable person I’ve ever met, you’re just so cute. You don’t treat me like I’m some kind of untouchable celebrity, and I can actually be myself around you. I don’t feel like I have to impress you. I’ve even started dreaming about you sometimes,” he smiled a little guiltily. “So, yeah – I’m sure.”

  John jumped at the sound of enthusiastic applause from the table next to them, where two girls older than Cedric were grinning at him – one tall and freckled with short, dark red hair, the other shorter, with brown curls and glasses.

  “Sorry,” the tall one said, ruefully ceasing her clapping.

  “Good speech,” the other added to Cedric.

  “Thanks,” he said with a slightly embarrassed grin. The girls gave John encouraging smiles and returned to their own conversation.

  “Well?” Cedric said, turning back to look at John. “Have I just made a total arse of myself?”

  He said it in a light-hearted tone, but John thought he still looked nervous. He felt a rush of affection for the older boy. He might not be sure if he was in love with Cedric, but he knew for certain that he meant a great deal to him, and he knew that he would have to be some kind of lunatic to turn this kind of offer down. Cedric was good and kind and handsome – everything John could ever hope for in a boyfriend. Putting aside his old affections for Sherlock, how was he so convinced that he _didn’t_ love Cedric? It might not have been the burning ache of longing he’d felt for Sherlock, but perhaps that wasn’t what he needed right now. What he felt for Cedric was warmer, softer, and actually made him feel good about himself. Cedric was right – he didn’t have to be anyone else but him. He didn’t have to worry that what he was saying was stupid or would warrant an eye-roll or sarcastic comment. So he gripped Cedric’s hand and smiled. He saw Cedric visibly catch his breath, and that was enough to cement his decision.

  “No, you haven’t,” he said. “I love you too, Ced.”

  There was a small exclamation of emotional delight from the next table. The redhead and brunette had their fingers pressed to their mouths, trying to pretend they hadn’t been eavesdropping, but casting an excited glance over at Cedric all the same. John didn’t mind – the only thing that mattered was the look of unsuppressed happiness that had filled Cedric’s face, illuminating his handsomeness like a sunbeam.

  It was nearing dusk as John and Cedric approached the end of John’s street. Cedric was going to Apparate back to his house, having passed his test that year, and had insisted on walking John home. This made John feel slightly like a teenage girl, but he wasn’t complaining too loudly as Cedric had held his hand the whole way. After they left the coffee shop, they’d walked round the shops for a while, and spend quite a long time just walking round the park, talking. John had wanted to kiss him the moment they’d stepped out of the cafe, but since they were still surrounded by people, then later at the park by loads of children, they’d decided not to. John couldn’t deny he was nervous as they approached the sign for Elmwood Avenue, as he knew the moment was sure to come soon. The neighbourhood’s residence had mostly retreated back into their houses, aside from Mr. Everett at Number Six, who was still washing his car. The low sun cast a buttery glow over the roofs of the houses, reflecting off the cars parked along the street.

  “Well,” Cedric said, and all the moisture evaporated from John’s mouth. “Guess I’ll see you soon, then?”

  “Yeah,” he said, trying for a smile which felt a little quivery. “Definitely.”

  Cedric raised a hand and gently cupped the back of his head, and John felt a ripple of thrill run down his spine. This could only be it. He numbly felt Cedric’s other hand move to rest at the small of his back, their torso’s touching, as he slowly lowered his head finally pressing his mouth to John’s. John felt his whole brain mist over, the sensation liken to slipping into a warm bath on a cold day. John had never kissed anyone before – boy or girl – but when Cedric’s lips moved against his he automatically respond in kind. He closed his eyes and slipped his arms around Cedric’s waist, pulling himself closer as Cedric entwined his fingers in John’s hair and deepened the kiss. He tasted like sweetened coffee.

  “So,” Cedric said, when they pulled apart, “are you going to tell your parents?”

  “Don’t think they’d be all that surprised,” John said, his voice slightly shaky. His stomach felt like it was fizzing. “Think my mum’s probably twigged. She guessed easily enough with my sister.”

  “Your sister’s gay too?” Cedric raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s almost overkill.”

  “Yeah,” John laughed. “But I think I got the better deal.”

  Cedric smile broadened and he planted a kiss on John’s forehead. “I’ll tell mine tonight.”

  “Really?” John felt a little anxious. “Will your dad freak out?”

  “Maybe,” Cedric shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  He still looked a little nervous so John stood on tiptoe – feeling a little stupid – and kissed him softly. “Send me an owl after,” he said. “I’d say phone but you probably don’t have one.”

  Cedric shook his head. “I’ll send Juniper either tonight or tomorrow. I’d better go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sod it, come here.”

  It was another ten minutes before John finally walked up his front path. He was feeling light-headed and dreamy, a ridiculous smiled slapped over his face, something Harriet didn’t fail to notice as he entered the house, where she was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The new short haircut she’d adopted that summer made her look rather formidable, along with the fact she was a good five inches taller than he was.

  “So,” she said as John stepped out of his shoes and shrugged off his jacket. “How long have you been a homo, Merlin?”

  John paused for a second and locked gaze with his older sister. It was the one thing they had in common – the exact same shade of dark green in their eyes – though now it seemed there was something else they shared.

  “Not as long as you,” he said. He was half expecting a clout, but instead she just folded her arms and smirked.

  “You know about Clara?”

  “No,” John said. “But Sherlock figured it out last time he was here.”

  Harriet rolled her eyes. “Of course, Spock would guess.”

  “So who’s Clara?”

  “None of your business.”

  John pushed past her into the kitchen and started making himself a sandwich. He hadn’t eaten earlier due to nerves and was starving.

  “Must say,” Harriet continued, “considering you’re a mousy little squirt you’ve done pretty well.”

  “Yes, I have,” John said irritably. “Cedric’s one of the most popular guys at school.”

  “Oh, so he’s one of you lot too?”

  “Yep. He’s seventeen.”

  “And he likes you? Paedo.”

  “Fuck off,” John said loudly, just as his mother appeared at the French windows to the garden.

  “John Hamish Watson!” she said sternly. “Do _not_ use that sort of language.”

  John grimaced and Harriet smirked. He stuck his middle finger at her as Mrs. Watson turned her back to put the kettle on.

  “Anyway,” she said, a little less severely. “Did you have a nice day?”

  “I’ll say,” Harriet muttered.

  “Yes,” John said over her. “It was great.”

  “Who were you out with? Greg?”

  “No, it was, um. . . another one of my friends.”

  John’s stomach was starting to squirm. The moment was fast approaching. He just hoped his anticipations of his mother’s reaction would be correct.

  “Mum,” he said, his throat feeling a bit too tight. “Can I talk to you about something?”

  Hearing the sincerity in his voice, Mrs. Watson turned and folded her arms. “Of course, pet.”

  “Well,” John swallowed. “It’s kind of about Cedric. . . the guy I was seeing today.”

  A flash of realisation passed over his mother’s face, which made him think his next sentence wouldn’t come as that much of a surprise.

  “He’s, um, well. . . he’s gay.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “And, err. . . I guess. . . um. . .”

  “You are too.”

  She said it calmly, matter-of-factly, like she was commenting on the weather. John’s face flushed scarlet and he diverted his gaze to the kitchen countertop. There was a brief silence in which the only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. John could sense Harriet’s eager anticipation for their mother’s reaction.

  “Well,” Mrs. Watson said, reaching for a mug from the cupboard above the kettle. “This Cedric. . . Is he a nice boy?”

  Not quite the question he’d been expecting, but better than fire and brimstone.

  “Um, yeah,” he said. “He’s amazing.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seventeen,” John said, a little apprehensively.

  Mrs. Watson looked surprised, but didn’t seemed perturbed by this fact, thankfully seeming not to share Harriet’s views on the subject.

  “Is he a wizard too?”

  John nodded. She looked relieved and smiled.

  “Well, darling, I’m very happy for you.”

  “You are?” He didn’t mean to sound quite so surprised.

  “Of course, love,” Mrs. Watson looked a little hurt. “You’re my boy and I don’t mind who you choose to go out with. And your dad would feel the same.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the shed,” she gestured to the open garden doors. “Do you want me to get him?”

  “Mum,” Harriet interrupted. Her arms were tightly folded and she was looking slightly less smug than before, her eyes fixed on the floor by their mother’s feet. “I’m gay too.”

  “Pardon?” Now Mrs. Watson _did_ look shocked. “Harry, are you serious?”

  “Yes,” she replied, a little petulantly.

  “You’re not just making fun of your brother?”

  “No. I mean it. I’ve got a girlfriend. Her name’s Clara.” She still didn’t look up.

  Mrs. Watson sighed and walked across the room to her children. She put one arm around John’s shoulders and gestured for Harriet to come closer, which she did – albeit a little begrudgingly. The three of them stood there for a while, Mrs. Watson’s arms enclosed tightly around them.

  “I miss something?” Mr. Watson’s voice came from the French windows, where he was standing with a pair of muddy garden gloves in his hands.

  “Yes, dear,” Mrs. Watson said. “Both our children are gay.”

  A pause.

  “Blimey,” Mr. Watson said. “Reckon it’s in your genes or mine?”

  “Hush,” Mrs. Watson said fondly, planting a kiss on the top of John and Harriet’s heads.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John woke up the next morning – his clock said eight-forty-six – to the sound of tapping on his bedroom window. Juniper was perched on the outside sill, a small parchment envelope held in her beak. He sleepily crossed the room and opened the window to let her in, upon which she dropped the envelope into his hands and flapped over to Hector’s cage, who began clicking his beak excitedly at her appearance.

  The address on the envelope was untidily written, not like Cedric’s normal print, so John opened it with an air of trepidation, which turned to outright dismay as he read the first line of the letter.

_John,_

_Not good news. Dad went completely ballistic. Of course this doesn’t make any difference in how I feel about you, but it does mean that meeting up again is going to be difficult, as Dad has banned me from leaving the house for the rest of my mortal life. I know this completely sucks but I have to go with it for a while, just until he calms down a bit. Hope it went better with your parents._

_I love you._

_Cedric._

John was torn between throwing his chair out of the window or throwing himself out of the window. This was so _unfair_. The first romantic thing to ever happen to him and the universe had decided, “Nope! Not for you, Watson! Ha ha ha!”. Cedric was right – it completely and _utterly_ sucked. He sat down heavily at his desk and wrote a response saying he was sorry his dad was being a prick (in slightly more eloquent terms), that his parents had been perfectly fine with it, that if Cedric needed somewhere to say at any point he could come to John’s house, and that he loved him too.

  Once he’d sent Juniper away again, new letter clutched in her beak and Hector hooting slightly mournfully after her, John went back to his bed and threw himself down onto it. He tucked his legs up to his chest and sighed deeply. He was come over with a sudden overwhelming desire to see Sherlock, but then remembered that he probably wasn’t speaking to him now after the argument yesterday. He didn’t think Greg would be the best confidant in a situation like this, since he’d probably do that awkward-guy-friend thing and end up saying something stupid, which left just one person he wanted to speak to.

  After he’d finished sulking and gotten dressed, and found the piece of parchment in his desk with Molly’s number on and sat down with the phone at the bottom of the stairs. She answered after three rings, and the moment she said the fated words “are you okay?”, the floodgates were open and he was telling her everything that had happened between two days ago and that morning. She was delighted, of course, about Cedric revealing his feelings to John, but suitable distraught when he read out the letter he’d sent.

  _“D’you reckon his dad will get over it?”_ she asked, as John morosely chewed a piece of toast his mother had brought him from the kitchen.

  “Dunno,” he mumbled. “He seemed okay at the World Cup. Must just be a twat in secret.”

  _“But when we go back to school it won’t matter,”_ Molly said encouragingly. _“He won’t be around to get in the way.”_

  “I dunno, Moll,” John leaned his head against the wall. “I think him and Cedric are pretty close normally. Don’t reckon he’ll want to go against him too much. Which I can understand, I guess. It just sucks. Seriously.”

  _“It does,”_ Molly agreed, sighing down the line. _“Well, leave a couple days and see how it pans out. Could be he just needs to cool down a bit.”_

  “I hope so.”

_“Have you heard from Sherlock?”_

  “’Course not,” John snorted. “Can you seriously imagine _him_ apologising first?”

  _“Guess not,”_ she said. _“You’re having a bit of a crap time of it, aren’t you?”_

  “You can say that again.”

_“You’re having a—”_

  “Shut up, Moll.”

  _“Sorry.”_

  John moped for the rest of the day, despite his parents’ attempts to cheer him up, and Harriet telling him to stop being so bloody po-faced or she’d sock him with a lamp. In the evening he locked himself in his room, idly flipping through his textbooks for the following year, trying to take his mind off the whole thing, not that it did the job all that well. Again, he found his thoughts drifting to Sherlock, and wondering what he was doing right now. Probably trying to memorise the entire text of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4_ before they’d even set foot on the Hogwarts Express. What would happen if they still hadn’t made up before school started? Would Sherlock go back to sitting at the Ravenclaw table at meals, and stop hanging out in the Gryffindor Common Room? Everyone else would probably twig someone had happened, and they’d definitely notice if Cedric stopped hanging around with him too, if his father forbade him from doing so. John spent an unpleasant few minutes imagining the taunts he’d probably have to endure from Malfoy, Moriarty, and the other Slytherin half-wits who liked to take the piss out of any Gryffindor slung their way. He was interrupted from these lovely thoughts by Hector making such a racket to get out of his cage that Harriet started banging on the wall from her room next door. John swung open the cage door open and Hector hopped out on the desk, giving his wings a good flap in John’s face before sailing off into the darkening sky outside.                

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

John didn’t hear anything from Cedric for a good three days after that, when he was woken by the dulcet tones of “Oi, Merlin! Bird for you!” from Harriet downstairs. Yawning, he shuffled down the stairs, his slippers flapping with each step, and saw Juniper perched on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his father watching her with interest. He himself was a Muggle postman, and found the idea of owl delivery rather entertaining.

  “The head office must be a bit of a mess,” he chuckled as John took the letter from Juniper, who ruffled her feathers and accepting the piece of toast Mr. Watson held out to her. “I remember back when we lived in Surrey there was this bloke and his family trying to keep owls away from their house by blocking up every gap in the place. Think he was a bit barmy, to be honest. Had to deliver the normal post through one of the windows.”

  John helped himself to bowl of cornflakes and sat down to read the letter, his stomach doing little back-flips as he pulled open the rough wax seal on the back.

 _John_ , Cedric wrote, his writing much neater than last time.

            _Dad’s not quite so mad now, though he’s still not all that pleased with the idea. He’s still said I’m not allowed to see you for the rest of the holidays._

  John’s heart sank to his slippers.

  _But that doesn’t mean we can’t still see each other at school. I’ll come find you on the train once we leave and we can talk about it. I’m so sorry for all this nonsense. If it comes to it I’ll move out and live in a box somewhere if he can’t get over it by the end of the year._

_I know I said it last time but I still mean it – I love you. You’re amazing and I hope you can forgive me for messing you about like this._

_Cedric xxx_

Three X’s. John’s faced flushed warm as he re-read the last line of the letter. He couldn’t hear those words enough, even if it was proving a little more complicated than he’d been expecting. Well, if Cedric was willing to take the crap from his dad then John could just wait a bit for him. There was only just over a week left until they were due to return to Hogwarts, where they could see each other again every day if they wanted to. So perhaps things were on the up. He raised a hand to touch his mouth, remembering how it had felt to kiss Cedric – how warm and sweet he’d tasted.

  That was something definitely worth waiting for.


	4. Chapter 4

  Sitting in their usual compartment, a book unopened in his lap, staring out of the window with his chin in his palm. John took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the handle of his trunk and walked past the glass door, hoping that by some kind of divine intervention that Sherlock wouldn’t look up and see him as he passed. Luck seemed to be on his side , since Sherlock’s eyes didn’t so much as move from the spot on which they were fixed on the platform outside, and John proceeded along the aisle to an empty compartment. After stowing his luggage in the overhead compartment, he was joined a couple of minutes later by Molly, who gave him an understanding grimace as she sat down opposite him.

  “No word yet?”

  John shook his head and Molly sighed.

  “You’d have thought he would’ve swallowed his pride by now.”

  John gave her an incredulous look. “Have you _met_ the guy?”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said. “But if he was so desperate for Cedric not to steal you away surely he’d at least fight a little bit.”

  “Not really his style,” John said. “Reckon he’d rather just wait ‘til I go crawling back to him.”

  “He’d have to be pretty confident,” Molly said.

  “Well,” John snorted. “If there’s anything Sherlock Holmes has, it’s confidence.”

  After the train set off from the station, they were joined for a short while by Greg - who was taller and more tan than last year, but it wasn’t until the trolley lady had been and gone that there was a polite knock on the glass door and John looked up to see Cedric’s face smiling at him.

  John’s heart leapt and Cedric pulled aside the door. “Hey,” he said, then nodded greeting to Molly and Greg, who was looking a little intimidated by his sudden presence. “Can I have a word?”

  “Sure,” John said, following Cedric out of the compartment and down the aisle of the train. They ducked inside the alcove that separated the carriages, Cedric’s hands immediately going to John’s waist as he bent down to kiss him.

  “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his lips roaming to the side of John’s neck.

  “Me too,” John said, lifting a hand to rest on the back of Cedric’s head.

  It had been a difficult couple of weeks since they’d shared their first kiss on that sunlit street. Cedric’s dad still hadn’t cooled off completely about the whole situation, not allowing Cedric to visit John under any circumstances, but that hadn’t stopped Cedric from sending John a letter at least every other day. They tried to keep their conversation fairly normal, but there was still that underlying question of what would happen when they did see each other again. The urgency with which Cedric’s lips returned to John’s clearly answered that particular query.

  “Sorry it took me so long to come find you,” Cedric said when they drew apart. He tapped the small badge emblazoned with the letter P on the front of his robes. “Prefect duties. Riveting stuff.”

  “That’s okay,” John said, linking his fingers through Cedric’s and smiling up at him. “I knew you’d come eventually. Well, I hoped.”

  “I saw Sherlock,” Cedric said, and John’s stomach dropped a little. “He was sitting with a couple of second years in the first carriage looking about as friendly as the Bloody Baron.”

  “Oh,” was all John could think of to say. “Well, he’s still not talking to me.”

  “Have you tried talking to him?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “Because,” Cedric said, cupping John’s chin with his fingers. “He’s your friend. And you’re his only one.”

  “But. . .” John pressed his lips together. “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  Should he tell him? Was it wise to reveal to the boy who had told him he loved him that he’d been harbouring a desire for another guy for three years? John wasn’t sure it would go down well, though it would probably make Cedric slightly less keen for John to make friends with Sherlock again. Maybe he should tell him, but not now.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, pulling Cedric down by his tie for another kiss.

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John, Sherlock, and Cedric all lay awake that night.

John’s head buzzing was with thoughts. Not just about Cedric and Sherlock, but also about Dumbledore’s announcement at the feast earlier. Despite having absolutely no knowledge about previous years of the Triwizard Tournament, the idea of it was incredibly exciting. He wondered who would be selected as Hogwarts’ champion, and what the contenders from the other schools would be like. He’d had no idea there were other wizarding schools beside Hogwarts, though it seemed foolish now he thought about it – there were probably hundreds of them in the varying countries. It was weird to think that other countries like Japan and Australia also had a secret community of wizards, not just Europe.

  It had been a little strange not to have Sherlock sitting beside him at the feast that night. He’d sat at the Ravenclaw table, his back to the Gryffindors, not looking at anyone for the entire meal. He’d almost looked bored when Dumbledore had been making his announcements, but then John supposed he’d heard it all from Mycroft already. Either that or he just didn’t care. Whichever it was, he certainly didn’t look happy. He didn’t smile or clap once when the new first-years were Sorted, and even glared at one who dared to sit too closely to him when she joined the table.

  John’s stomach gave an unpleasant squirm and turned over onto his side, curling his legs up. He didn’t know how long this rift between them would last. He wasn’t sure who should apologise first. Sherlock shouldn’t have been so unpleasant upon discovering the truth about him and Cedric, but then John shouldn’t have called him a freak. If he, John, tried to make the first move, it would be the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to shoot him down in flames as penance for insulting him. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn’t _want_ to hang around with him anymore, since he now knew the truth. His insides twisted again and he buried his face in his pillow.

  Two floors below, Sherlock was still in an armchair by the Common Room fire, his feet curled beneath him, a book balanced on a cushion by his elbow, though he hadn’t looked at its pages in long while. It felt strange to be surrounded by the blue hangings and arched windows of Ravenclaw Tower after having spent almost the entirety of the last few years in the cosy Gryffindor Common Room. There was always a lot less chatter and more reading of books and poring over homework in Ravenclaw, which many would have thought more to Sherlock’s taste than the friendly noise and commotion of the Gryffindors. Sherlock himself would have thought so once upon a time.

  It had been much harder than he’d thought to see John walk past him without a second glance that morning on the train. He’d made sure he hadn’t looked directly at his face, but he’d recognised his footsteps and gait instantly. He’d been half expecting – or hoping, he wasn’t sure which – John would sit with him, regardless of what had happened. If he had, Sherlock might have considered apologising. It wasn’t John’s fault that he was attracted to him – he’d been informed by many people that he was physically appealing, and his former studies had shown that a person was seventy percent more likely to become attracted to those they associated with the most. If John was also attracted to Diggory then there was a chance that his feelings for Sherlock would eventually fade away.

  And yet.

  Sherlock laid a hand on the spot just below his diaphragm, where he could feel that unpleasant pain nagging at his insides. It had been happening more and more frequently in the past week or so, though he couldn’t find any kind of medical explanation. There were no other symptoms to suggest digestion problems, and he hadn’t eaten anything that might cause a stomach upset. The only possible conclusion he could draw from the situation was that it was some kind of emotional response. He’d felt it earlier on the train, then again in the Great Hall after he’d sat down at his House table, and over the noise of the student body had still managed to decipher the sound of John’s laughter.

  Pushing these thoughts out of his mind, he took a moment to wonder if Diggory would be putting his name in for the Triwizard Tournament. Probably. He doubted Hufflepuff’s Golden Boy would miss a chance to show off, especially now that he had John’s interest. It was the sort of thing he would have done back when he and John had first met, and he was so secretly desperate for John to be his friend, however indifferent he might have come across as. John was the first friend he’d ever had – the only person who’d been able to look past his slightly. . . odd attributes. Even Mycroft had difficulty with that sometimes. And now it had been spoiled by John’s emotions, Sherlock’s inability to keep his mouth shut, and Cedric bloody Diggory. Sherlock winced as, again, that pain made his stomach cramp up. In the past, John had often made references to a Muggle television show in which one of the characters had managed to train himself so as not to feel any emotions. Huh. What a useful talent that would be.

  Down in the basement of the castle, Cedric was also out of bed. His fellow sixth-years were all asleep, but he had left his own bed empty to sit in one of the low, circular windows that lined the walls of the dormitory, enjoying a pleasant view of the surrounding fields which, in the day, would be covered in flowers, but were now bathed in moonlight. It had been a trying couple of weeks, what with his father flying off the handle and worrying that he had managed to ruin John and Sherlock’s friendship for good. While Sherlock’s obvious jealousy had certainly been annoying at times, he was John’s best friend and anyone could see how close he and John were. While it was something of a miracle in Cedric’s eyes that Sherlock had managed to score such a good, loyal friend as John, Sherlock was kind of a good influence on John as well. For one thing, their arguments had taught John to be more self-assertive and not so eager to just cave in to Sherlock’s fluctuating mood swings.

  Cedric sighed and leaned his head against the side of the window pane as thoughts of John crowded his mind. Suffice to say, he would have been disbelieving to say the least if someone had told him back when they’d first met that he’d grow to care about John more than anyone else he knew. Yet, here he was, fighting an ongoing battle with his own father for his right to allow John into his life. Then there was the Tournament. . . Cedric knew that, now he was of age, his father would expect him to put forward his name as a candidate for Hogwarts champion. Cedric loved his father – he was a good man at his core – but he often wished he didn’t expect so much of him. It wasn’t enough to have been made Prefect and Captain of the House team – there was always more he could do to bring pride to his family’s name, to earn his father’s love in return. He wondered if his father would be so proud of him if he wasn’t such a high achiever – if he was just an average student with average looks and an average chance in life. But he wasn’t. He was Cedric Diggory – “Hufflepuff’s Golden Boy”. God, he hated that nickname. It wasn’t enough for those who liked him to set such high standards by his reputation, but that even the name given to him by those who _didn’t_ like him made him out to be some kind of superhero.

  But not John.

  John had always treated him like he was a normal human being. Sure, he knew John admired him, but not in the holier-than-thou way everyone else did. The only other person who treated him like that was Cho, but they had clarified many years ago that they weren’t meant to be together. Cedric suspected she’d known long before he had about his true sexual orientation. She knew him well enough. Next to John he supposed he was closer to her than anyone. She was the only other person he’d told about his feelings for John back when he’d first started to suspect himself of them. She’d just taken his hand and smiled. If only it was as easy for his father to be so understanding. He’d taken Cedric by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. So much of his father’s reputation seemed to depend on how Cedric acted and the things he did. Suppose he _did_ enter the Tournament and ended up being eaten by a manticore or something – how would his father survive without such a prestigious son to uphold his name? God, he hated it. He sometimes even thought he hated his father, but then he would sling an arm over his shoulders and say something like, “That’s my boy!” and he would always strive to do better. It was why he’d been so disappointed by his father’s reaction to him being gay – he’d done so much for him, it almost felt like he deserved something in return, even if it was just acceptance for who he really was.

  Well, he wasn’t going to allow his father’s narrow-mindedness to keep him and John apart. He loved the boy and, by Merlin, he was going to make the most of the time he could spend alone with him, even if it meant going behind his father’s back to do so.  

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School became a lot more interesting for John during the next couple of months, as he found himself spending every waking second looking forward to his next meeting with Cedric – some of which happened by chance, others were carefully planned between them. It felt like they were breaking some sort of law by just seeing each other, yet John couldn’t deny it made the whole experiencing rather exciting. They often met in abandoned corridors after dinner, or in secluded corners of the school grounds at break and weekends. They’d even spent a glorious Saturday traipsing round the countryside surrounding Hogsmeade, alone for a whole three hours. They didn’t do anything more than kissing and sometimes a little light touching, though John was starting to have embarrassingly erotic dreams again, although they featured a substantially less amount of Sherlock than they once had.

  Speaking of whom, he still had not spoken a single word to. Granted, Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him either, but it was most bizarre to have himself treated like a total stranger by his former best friend, and likewise being expected to ignore Sherlock like he’d never set eyes on him before. The Slytherins were quick to notice this of course, asking John if he and “his boyfriend” had had a tiff over the summer, but he learned to ignore them, too. It wasn’t the most pleasant of times he’d ever had, but it was numbed slightly by the promise of his and Cedric’s next meeting, just around the corner.

  It was the 30th of October, and – according to a bulletin posted in the Entrance Hall – the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would be arriving at six o’clock that evening. The excitement was palpable as they returned their bags to their dormitories half an hour early and gathered in organised lines in front of the castle steps, the anticipation reaching a peak when Beauxbatons’ giant horses-and-carriage and the ghostly Durmstrang ship revealed themselves in the chilly night. John joined in the intrigued chatter at the revelation that _Viktor Krum_ himself was one of the Durmstrang candidates, and even found himself admiring the prettiness of some of the Beauxbatons girls along with the rest of the Gryffindor boys – primarily a tall one with long, flowing silver hair, and another with an impish expression and dark hair styled up at the back of her head.

  The Welcoming Feast was excellent. John and Molly enjoying sampling the foreign dishes that the house elves had prepared in honour of the new guests, though both turned their noses up at a platter of escargot that had been placed on the Gryffindor table a short way from where they were sitting. After Dumbledore had explained the rules of how the Goblet of Fire would be selecting the three champions from the respective schools, they were sent to bed chatting about who would try to enter and what the three tasks might be. Cedric caught up with John and Molly as they passed into the Entrance Hall, giving John’s hand a quick, unseen squeeze.

  “Are you going to enter, Cedric?” Molly asked, her eyes wide in admiration as she gazed up at the older boy.

  Cedric gave a non-committal shrug. “Maybe,” he said.

  He and John hung about by the staircase until the rest of the students had filtered out of sight, the foreign students making their way back outside to the Beauxbatons carriage and Durmstrang ship.

  “Will you go in for it, though?” John asked, his fingers toying with the hem of Cedric’s sleeve.

  Cedric sighed, slipping a hand around John’s waist. “Well, Dad will want me to,” he said. “Suppose everyone will kind of expect it.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “S’your own fault for always doing so well.”

  Cedric and a dry smile and kissed him.

  The next evening, everyone was on tenterhooks to find out who the three champions were. Cedric, true to expectation, had entered his name, though he confessed to John that he was more than a little nervous about the whole thing. The first name to be drawn was Viktor Krum, to which nobody showed a great deal of surprise. The second was Fleur Delacour – the beautiful silver-haired Beauxbatons girl. The majority of the other Beauxbatons candidates looked thoroughly despondent about not being chosen, though John saw the dark-haired girl he’d noticed before the Welcoming Feast give Fleur a playful smile and a wink, to which Fleur blushed prettily.

  _Interesting_ , John thought.

  The Goblet’s flames glowed red for a third time. His insides gave a lurch as he turned to catch Cedric’s eye. He looked perfectly at ease, though John could see the tension in his shoulders.

  “The Hogwarts champion,” Professor Dumbledore said loudly, “is Cedric Diggory.”

  The Hufflepuff table exploded into roars of delight, the ones closest to Cedric jostling to pat him on the back or shake his hand. Cedric smiled broadly, and headed up the aisle between the tables to where Dumbledore was waiting for him. As he passed, he gave a quick glance down at John, who smiled back as encouragingly as he could. Cedric touched the top of John’s head for the briefest moment before following Krum and Fleur Delacour’s steps into the chamber behind the teacher’s table.

  John didn’t really listen to Dumbledore’s following speech congratulating the champions. It might have seemed selfish, but a part of him and almost hoped that Cedric wouldn’t have been chosen. Now that he would be in public view more than ever, not just within the school walls, but for anyone who read the Daily Prophet – he was sure the whole challenge would be thoroughly documented – the chances of him and John spending much time together alone would be very slim indeed. Then there were the challenges themselves. Dumbledore had said the chances of anybody dying this year had been eradicated from the equation, but John wasn’t convinced. From the sound of it the tasks would be difficult and dangerous, and while he had no doubt in Cedric’s abilities, the thought of having to watch him face anything that might cause him injury was hard to stomach.

  He was distracted from these thoughts by the bright scarlet flames that had glowed from inside the Goblet once more, as Dumbledore caught the scrap of parchment that flew from its mouth into his hand.

  “Harry Potter,” he read.

  Every eye – including John’s – moved to stare at where Harry was sitting, looking about as dumbfounded and horrified as the situation called for. John’s internal conflict seemed considerably less important now. Jesus. Was it him, or did _everything_ seem to happen to Harry? It was like he was the main character in some story whose author got a kick out of torturing their characters.

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It had been three weeks since the night the Goblet of Fire had selected the four Triwizard Champions, and tempers were running high within the walls of Hogwarts. Since John still hadn’t made any attempt to talk to him, Sherlock had found himself with excess time to observe that which was happening around him, something he hadn’t had since before he started at Hogwarts. It used to be a favourite pastime of his – sitting on a bench in the park or on the street, deducing facts about the people who passed by. Since there was so much excitement in the school at the moment, there was little need for him to strain his mental abilities to know what everyone was thinking. Not only was there the anticipation of the First Task in two days time, but also the rift that had formed between the majority of the school and Potter since he’d been named the second Hogwarts Champion. This antagonistic attitude mostly came from the Hufflepuffs, though not – to Sherlock’s slight surprise – from Diggory. He seemed not to care that Potter was competing against him, and Sherlock even heard him reprimanding a couple of his underclassmen for shouting, “Potter stinks!” whenever Potter walked past. There was also the underlying thrill from most of the female students about the presence of Viktor Krum, which Sherlock found particularly irritating, especially when they came twittering into the Library whenever Krum was in there, and Sherlock was trying to read or doing homework. Sherlock longed to tell them they were wasting their time – Krum was obviously spending so much time in the Library in an attempt to engage Hermione Granger in conversation, a feat that was proving difficult as she was nearly always with Potter or Weasley’s sister. However, his knowledge of this fact didn’t stretch enough to him caring enough to share it with anyone else. Normally he would have told John, but. . .

  Sherlock gave his head an annoyed shake and closed the book he had open on the table by the window, his usual haunt in the Library nowadays. He’d been trying to train himself not to think about John, since it made him angry and his stomach hurt. He stored the book in his bag and left the Library, glancing at Potter and Granger, who had a large stack of books piled on the table between them, all of which had titles related to dragons. So, the First Task was dragons, was it? Sherlock supposed Potter had been tipped off by the gamekeeper, who would have undoubtedly told him in an attempt to prepare him for the task. He didn’t see any other reason why Potter would have his nose buried in _Men Who Love Dragons Too Much_.

  The corridors were fairly empty as Sherlock made his way back to Ravenclaw Tower. It was the first properly bright day they’d had for days, and so almost everyone else was taking advantage of the sunlit grounds. Hopefully this meant that the Common Room would be pretty much deserted as well, and Sherlock could immerse himself in his books without distraction until the end of lunch. He headed off down a long corridor flanked by suits of armour, turning left at a portrait of a wizard in a large purple hat to use the secret passage that halved the journey to Ravenclaw Tower by a good ten minutes. As he pushed aside the painting to reveal the gap in the stone wall, the hated wizard said, “I wouldn’t go this way if I—”

  Too late, Sherlock saw the two people huddled just inside the passageway. One was pressed against the wall, the front of their robes hanging open, their head raised upwards to allow themselves to be passionately kissed by another taller figure, who had their hands pressed to the exposed skin under the smaller person’s shirt. When they realised Sherlock’s presence beside them, they turned and looked at him, both flushed in the face.

  It was John and Diggory.

  Sherlock’s stomach gave an extremely uncomfortable twist, and for a moment he thought he was about to vomit. Both John and Diggory looked mortified, and John’s face had gone a colour to perfectly match the lining of his Gryffindor robes. Of all the secret passageways in all the school, _why_ did they have to choose _this_ one in which to carry out their. . . activities? John seemed lost for words, but it was the look on Diggory’s face that sent Sherlock’s insides into a kicking rage. Smugness he could take, as with anger or dislike – but not pity. He was not so weak that he needed pity from a person like Cedric Diggory – the person who had stolen his best friend from him, blinded John with his good looks and so-called charm. Poor simple, trusting John – how had he ever stood a chance? He had allowed himself to become putty in Diggory’s clever fingers. Sherlock could no more imagine bequeathing himself to someone so entirely than fly to the sun.

  But then why. . .? Why. . .? What the—?

  Sherlock raised a hand to his face, shocked to find thin tracks of wetness there. How had they escaped without him realising? His vision was becoming blurred, his heartbeat racing, the heat rising in his cheeks. He had to get out of there. He barely registered John calling his name as he blundered down the hallway, his senses leaving him to stumble blind through a door that led to where he neither knew or cared. He just needed to escape from it – the looks of sympathy he’d seen mirrored in John and Diggory’s eyes, burning into him like lasers. He clutched a hand to his stomach, his insides writhing like angry snakes. God it hurt. It hurt so much he thought he must be sick, the tears still coming thick and fast, dripping from the end of his nose onto the hard stone floor. He’d never felt this wretched before. He ran his hands through his hair and wrenched at the curls, trying to dull the sickness with physical pain. He was so angry, so blindly, inexplicably full of a rage he’d never felt nor could begin to understand.

  Sherlock sank to the floor, his back against the wood of the door behind him, his forehead pressed against his knees, his fingers closed over his ears. He wanted to block it out. He didn’t know what to do. A burning desire scorched inside him, though what for he didn’t know. For the first time in his life, he cursed his inability to distinguish human emotions – to define them. Perhaps if he knew how he could suppress the tidal wave of feelings that were coursing through his veins, held back by the dam of his intellect for so many years. The pain was building Sherlock screwed up his eyes and let out a throat-wrenching yell that exploded from him like a cannon blast, the nearby chairs and tables in the room crashing into the walls, splintering by the power of the magic that had burst unspoken from him.

  It wasn’t for a good few minutes that Sherlock even registered the banging against the other side of the door. His head was spinning, his ears full of a crackling buzz. Through what felt like a fog, he could hear John’s urgent voice calling through the solid wood.

  “Sherlock,” he was saying. “Jesus, please, open the door!”

  Sherlock didn’t reply. He felt as though every ounce of his energy had been sucked out of him. There was only one thing he wanted – something he remembered from what felt like a long time ago. The only one thing he could remember feeling genuinely, solidly _good_. He dully registered rising to his feet and turning to twist the door handle. John’s face was contorted with confusion and worry, his brow furrowed as he took in Sherlock’s tousled hair and tear-streaked face.

  It happened quite abruptly, almost as though it had been trapped beneath the scream Sherlock had not known he needed to release. He knew it as suddenly and surely as being struck by lightning. Looking at John Watson, Sherlock knew without doubt that he was the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes upon. He couldn’t understand why he’d never seen it before. The way the colour of his eyes reflected an ocean following a storm, the golden tint of his eyelashes, the way his ash-brown hair curled slightly at his temples, his warm, sunny smile. Sherlock wanted nothing more at that moment to gaze at John’s face until his vision gave out. His eyes moved over every inch, drinking him in hungrily as though he would never see him again.

  “Sherlock,” John said. That voice. How had he known recognised how sweet it was?

  “I’ve missed you,” Sherlock’s own voice said without warning, even to himself, the words sounding foreign on his lips. “I’m so sorry.”

  First John looked shocked, then relieved, then Sherlock didn’t know, the pain in his stomach turning to butterflies as John reached out and pulled into his arms. Sherlock buried his face in the smaller boy’s shoulder, closing his eyes and breathing in his scent. He wondered if John could feel his racing heart. His mind marvelled at the intensity of the pleasure he felt as John’s fingers stroked his back. The warmth in his affection was almost palpable. How could he have missed it before?

  _“I don’t feel the same.”_

  Sherlock’s whole body stiffened as the words he’d said to John all those weeks ago resurfaced in his mind. How could he have been so blind? John had said he’d been in love with him for a very long time. And now there was Diggory – Diggory who was open and honest and basically the blueprint of a “good guy”. Everything Sherlock wasn’t. Even if he confessed himself to John now, what chance would he have of competing against someone like that – especially now that they had reached a physical point in their secret relationship? Did John _love_ Diggory, the way he said he loved Sherlock? Could love for a person fade as quickly as it could develop?

  All these questions to which the great Sherlock Holmes could not answer, or even hazard a guess. 

 

          

  

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

John was sitting in a corner of the Gryffindor Common Room near the end of lunch on Monday 24 th of November, idly flipping through the pages of ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’ – still his favourite schoolbook – and watching Dean and Seamus play chess. The Common Room was fairly quiet, since the Weasley twins were off doing some mischief elsewhere, Ron in tow, and Harry and Hermione were nowhere to be seen. John’s concern about the first task of the Triwizard Tournament was beginning to be split two ways between Harry and Cedric. While he was naturally concerned for Cedric’s safety in whatever unknown challenge he was down to face in the first task tomorrow, at least Cedric had six years magical experience to rely on, while Harry only had a mere four. At least he still had Hermione to help him, now that Ron had turned his back and refused to even  _look_ at Harry. John couldn’t believe that Harry’s supposed ‘best friend’ could behave in such a childlike manner. Of course Ron was jealous of him – you didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes or Hermione Granger to work that out – but surely friendship meant more to him than that? How could anyone believe that Harry would be so attention-seeking as to enter his own name into the Goblet of Fire? No-one seemed to have even considered the fact that it would be near impossible for him to do so anyway, considering the level of protection Dumbledore had placed about it. Harry was hardly criminal mastermind material. He wasn’t like Moriarty, of whom John would have no qualms with suspecting foul play.

  The door swung open and Sherlock stepped through, a large stack of books piled against his chest, his nose poking out around the side to see where he was going. John swung his legs down from where he had them sprawled across the squashy sofa, allowing Sherlock to sit down beside him. Balancing the tower of books on a footstool by his feet, Sherlock pulled a large scroll of parchment from his bag and unrolled it, revealing a long, unfinished essay. He picked up the top book, opened it to a spot he’d marked with a sweet wrapper, and began to scribble. John smiled and continued to watch one of Dean’s bishops thrashing Seamus’ one remaining pawn.

  The first steps the two boys had taken back into their friendship had been tentative, to say the least. Sherlock returned to eating at the Gryffindor table, but it was a day or two before he’d ventured into the Common Room. It was almost as though he expected to be thrown out by John’s housemates as penance, even though none of them except Molly knew the truth about their fight. A couple of people seemed almost glad to see him returned, saying how they’d missed their unofficial Gryffindor mascot. John could tell Sherlock was less than pleased with this new title, but thankfully he didn’t make any snide comments in return.

  The door opened again and Alicia Spinnet entered with Katie Bell.

  “Watson,” she called to him across the room, gesturing behind her at the open portrait hole. “Visitor for you.” She and Katie dissolved into giggles and they sat down in a couple of chairs by the wall.

  Only one person John knew could invoke that reaction. John set his book down on the armrest, marking the spot with Sherlock’s discarded wrapper, and walked over to the portrait hole. Sure enough, Cedric was standing just outside. Closing the portrait behind him – the Fat Lady settling down for another snooze – he suddenly noted how pale Cedric looked, and the sweat on his palm when he held his hand.

  “Ced, what’s up?”

  Cedric shook his head – not here. He led John down the staircase and down to one of their favourite secret hidey-holes – a spacious alcove behind a large suit of armour a floor below Gryffindor Tower.

  “What’s wrong?” John asked. Cedric leaned against the wall and seemed to regain some of his composure.

  “Dragons,” he said, with the same air one might use to say “certain death”.

  “Huh?!”

  “Harry told me, the first task is dragons.”

  “What?” John gaped. “How’d he know?”

  “I don’t know,” Cedric ran a hand through his straight dark hair. “I’m not even sure if he’s telling the truth.”

  “Harry wouldn’t lie,” John said without hesitation. “Not just to better his chances. He’s a good person.”

  “I know,” Cedric held out his arms and John stepped forward to meet them. “Jesus, John. . .”

  “It’s okay,” John said, raising his hand to stroke the back of Cedric’s neck. “We’ll work something out. I’m sure Sherlock will know—”

  “No,” Cedric said, almost sharply. John looked up at him. “I don’t want anyone else to know Harry told me. He might already be in trouble for it – Moody overhead him telling me.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” John said. “He likes Harry.” He sighed. “Okay, I won’t tell Sherlock. What’re you going to do?”

  Cedric rested his lips against the top of John’s head and hugged him tightly. “I’ll think of something,” he said.

  “I’d offer to help,” John said, feeling rather useless. “But know as much about dragons as Snape knows about shampoo.”

  Cedric smiled and kissed him. John wondered if he’d ever get used to how it felt.

  The next morning dawned cold and bright, and it was with an air of excitement and anticipation that the students sat down to breakfast. John glanced over at the Hufflepuff table, where Cedric was sitting with his friends, looking strained and pale. He seemed to be muttering to himself under his breath, his fingers tapping the an erratic rhythm on the tabletop. John sat down and looked down the table at Harry, who had the same look of distracted panic that Cedric did as Hermione tried to persuade him to eat some breakfast. John could not feel more sorry for either of them – he was nervous enough just at the _thought_ of them facing the dragons in just a few short hours.

  Cho had appeared at Cedric’s shoulder now, perched on the bench beside him and muttering some encouragement. Cedric smiled weakly at her and took the hand she offered, squeezing her fingers rather like a drowning man would a lifebelt. John felt a flash of annoyance and started savaging the bacon on his plate. It wasn’t that be begrudged Cho her friendship with Cedric – it just frustrated him that she could hold his hand in public without getting weird looks.

  “You okay?” Molly asked from across the table, turning in her seat to follow John’s gaze. “Ah.”

  “Pissed off and freaking out” John muttered, chewing a large mouthful of scrambled egg.

  “You and Cedric both, by the looks of it.”

  “Jesus,” John ran a hand through his hair, screwing his eyes shut against the image of Cedric standing alone against a fifty-foot monster of talons and flames.

  “He’ll be _fine_ ,” Molly said, so forcibly chipper her voice cracked on the last word. She cleared her throat. “I’m sure he’s got a plan figured out.”

  John set down his fork and pushed his plate aside, the bacon and eggs feeling like cotton wool and cardboard in his mouth.

  “Where’s Sherlock?” Molly said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  John shrugged.

  “How are things between you now?”

  “Fine,” John said. “But. . .” he thought back to the past few days in which he and Sherlock had been attempting to patch their friendship back together. Sherlock had been on what one might call his ‘best behaviour’, though he still looked annoyed whenever Cedric’s name was mentioned, and when John slipped away to meet him he looked positively thunderous. There were also times that John had thought he looked almost. . . sad, though when he realised John was paying closer attention he returned his expression to bland disinterest. He supposed Sherlock must be feeling lonely, now that they were speaking again but not in each other’s pockets as they’d once been.

  “But?” Molly prompted him.

  John noticed Cedric getting to his feet and their eyes locked for a moment before he began to walk from the room, shaking his head at his friends who had begun to rise with him.

  “Got to go,” John said, his eyes still on Cedric as he left the Great Hall with a subtle look over his shoulder. Without a second glance back at his curious friend, John hastened after him.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock was in Hell, or somewhere thereabouts.

  He’d tried to act as nonchalantly as possible since he and John had become friends again, though it was proving harder than he’d anticipated. Sherlock had always been a pretty good actor, but this was something he’d never had to pretend before – that he wasn’t in love with John.

  Merlin, it made him cringe to even think the words. They were just too corny, too clichéd, too. . . urgh. And yet, for all his efforts, they were true. At least, he presumed they were. Having never been in love before, he could only judge by what he’d read that that’s what was wrong with him. Stomach ache, increased heart-rate, wandering attention-span – it was all there.

  Sherlock would have preferred dragon-pox – at least _that_ had a cure.

  He was sure this ghastly experience was worth it if it was mutual with the other person involved – John looked happy enough frolicking with that Hufflepuff dimwit – but without any kind of outlet to funnel the feelings through, it was torture. Poets always seemed to bang on about how wonderful love was, how it was the answer to all life’s questions, how everything was better with it. They were all idiots.

  He’d been trying to distract himself by studying – his old standby – but it was proving difficult when all he wanted to do was stare at John’s face whenever he was in the same room. It would have been easier if he could have just holed away in the Library or Ravenclaw Tower, but he knew the way to avoid his feelings becoming known was to act as normal as possible. Besides, he thought with a bitter sigh, not seeing John made it worse. Every time he envisioned him with that stuck-up, oh-so-perfect moron Diggory, it was like a kick in the gut, and made Sherlock want to punch something. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. It was like an ever-present rock in the pit of his stomach. Often he couldn’t sleep, and eating regularly had started to prove a challenge. For the love of Merlin, how could anyone endure this with a smile on their face? He’d seen enough lovesick twits swoon over people they claimed to love, looking as merry as the Fat Friar. Sherlock was fairly certain he looked closer to Moaning Myrtle.

  Still, there was the first task still to come this afternoon. He knew it was going to involve dragons, having seen Ron Weasley’s brother and a few other swarthy men sporting burns on their arms hanging around outside Hagrid’s cabin. Perhaps Diggory might get eaten or roasted. This gleeful thought only brought a small amount of guilt to his conscience.

  Having decided to skip breakfast, Sherlock wanted to take advantage of the empty bathrooms. He disliked bathing in the company of people he wasn’t familiar with, even if there was a door between them, and it was nice to clean himself without having to listen to the idle chatter and general nonsense other teenage boys seemed to enjoy talking about. As he’d hoped, the bathroom was wondrously silent as he stepped through the doors into the serenity of the sunlight reflecting off the white tiles. He hung up the trousers and shirt he’d thrown on for the walk from Ravenclaw Tower, and helped himself to a fresh towel waiting on the rack by the shower cubicles, setting it down atop his folded pile of clothes. He caught a brief glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors as he stepped forward to open the door, and paused to examine his reflection. His last growth spurt had left him at five foot eleven, and he’d lost most of his childhood skinniness. While still thin, his ribs no longer jutted out like xylophone keys and his shoulders seemed to have broadened as well. His skin was pale, especially in comparison to his hair, save for a small patch of freckles just visible between his collar-bones. He found himself mentally comparing himself to how he imagined Diggory might look. He was just a little taller than himself, but much more muscular – the result of years of Quidditch training – and his skin had an even tan that Sherlock knew he could never replicate. Was that what John liked now? He’d found Sherlock attractive once, hadn’t he?

  Sherlock shook his head and stepped into the shower, locking the door behind him and turning the faucet. He allowed the water to spray on his chest for a moment before closing his eyes and stepping under completely. He put one hand on the wall opposite him and bent his neck forward, letting the water run down his spine. He watched the drops fall from his curls, eyelashes, and the end of his nose. Slowing closing his eyes again, he allowed another image to swim its way to the surface of his cluttered mind. He’d seen John at least semi-naked many times in their four year acquaintance during bathroom visits like this, so his imagination was not much stressed to picture how John would look beneath the spray of water – running down his chest, weaving into a steady path down the thin line of hair that stretched from his navel to the where his smooth skin gave out to dusky curls. Sherlock felt a stirring in his groin and forced himself to clear his mind (honestly, the amount of times he’d had to do this he might as well be practicing Occulemcy). He wasn’t so pathetic as to masturbate in a school shower, however much the idea might appeal to him. He wasn’t going to stoop that low. Not yet, anyway.

  He wrenched the faucet to the left and forced himself to stand beneath the freezing spray until all erotic and arousing thoughts had kindly removed themselves from his brain. They’d be back, he knew, but at least he might get through the morning without getting a hard-on. Clean, thoroughly chilly, and more than slightly annoyed, he slammed out of the cubicle, wrapped his towel around his waist and sat down to dry. In an attempt to warm him goosepimply skin, he pulled another towel around his shoulders and stared into space for a few minutes until a couple of boys came in. Ignoring their stares at his grumpy expression and now-flyaway hair (he’d forgotten to shampoo it), Sherlock dried the still-damp parts of himself and stuffed his arms and legs hurriedly back into his clothes.

  He thought the hallway was deserted as he left the bathroom, and so found himself jumping in surprise at the voice that spoke from beside him.

  “You know, a little tension release isn’t a bad thing.”

  Turning his head, Sherlock saw a girl he recognised as one of the Beauxbatons students, though her accent was decidedly British. She was very pretty, he noted, her dark hair pulled back in a stylish knot and her lips painted deep red, making her look older than seventeen. She was wearing the same blue silk uniform the other Beauxbatons students wore, but on her they looked different – almost fashionable. Despite himself, Sherlock found himself drawn to her attractiveness. He was not exactly a connoisseur in sex appeal, but he could tell this girl had it in spades – just by the way she held herself and the way her lip slowly curled as she watched him observing her. Sherlock was confused. He could normally guess almost anything about a person after just a quick look – their favourite food, which part of what country they came from, things like that – but not with this girl. There was nothing about her that gave away any clue as to who she was. This made Sherlock feel disconcerted.

  “Finished?” she asked.

  Sherlock blinked. “What?”

  “The little analysis you’re clearly doing on me right now,” she explained with a crafty smile. “I’ve heard a bit about you. Sherlock Holmes, Ravenclaw, more than a little strange. No offense.”

  Sherlock frowned and the girl laughed. She pulled a small powder compact from a pocket in her robes and examined her reflection in the mirror, running the tip of her finger along the line of her lower lip, presumably to remove a non-existent smear. Sherlock noticed her fingernails were painted the exact same shade of red as her lips.

  “As I was saying,” she said without looking up, “it really doesn’t hurt to indulge in a little fun once in a while.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock said.

  “Don’t be so prim,” the girl said, snapping the mirror shut and approaching him. He was a good five inches taller than her, despite being three years younger.

  He wanted to say something smart and cutting but all that came out was, “You’re not French.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in fake amazement. “Well, I am undone,” she gently took hold of his tie and twirled the end round her fingers. “The great Sherlock Holmes has figured me out. As it happens, genius, English people do live in France.”

  Sherlock stepped back. “What do you want?”

  “Only to give you a bit of friendly advice, Mr. Detective. You may think you’re being strong by denying yourself, but you’ll just make things worse.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Oh, cut it,” she said. “I have a certain talent for knowing what people like. And you, honey, like that little Gryffindor sweetie-pie John Watson.”

  Sherlock tried not to let the colour rise in his face. Who the hell _was_ this girl?

  “And trust me,” she continued, “a little quality _alone time_ can work wonders.”

  “Just how do you know I haven’t already?” Sherlock said, in as dignified a manner as he could manage while discussing self-pleasure.

  “Because you look ready to snap,” she said. “And pretty soon you will.”

  What what this girl – some kind of sex oracle?

  “Just think about it,” she said, turning on the spot and strolling back down the corridor, leaving Sherlock pretty much speechless. “Oh,” she paused just at the corner of the right-hand passageway, “the name’s Adler, by the way. Irene. Au revoir, Monsieur Holmes.”

OoOoOoOoO

The moment they stepped into one of their favourite alcoves, Cedric’s hands were in his hair, tipping his head back to kiss him deeply.

  “Ced, wait,” John had said, placing a hand on Cedric’s chest. “Don’t you want to talk?”

  “No,” Cedric had replied, slipping one hand through John’s robes, under his jumper, and running his fingers over the smooth skin at the base of his back while he pressed a series of hot kisses along John’s neck. “If this is gonna be my last day alive I want to remember it like this.”

  “You’re not. . . going to die. . .” John tried to say, though it was a little difficult to concentrate on words when Cedric was nibbling his earlobe.

  “I know,” the older boy sighed. His warm breath made John shiver. “Feels like it, though.”

  He captured John’s lips in another passionate kiss and John felt himself grow weak in his arms. “I love you, sweetheart.”

  John’s heart ached and he dug his fingers into the back of Cedric’s robes.

  “I might not be able to see you before we go to the stadium,” Cedric said when they pulled apart. “So I thought I should say goodbye now. Not for good,” he added when John opened his mouth, “just. . . for now.”

  “For now,” John confirmed. He reached up and pushed a few strands of straight dark hair out from Cedric’s forehead. His eyes softened and he leaned his cheek against John’s palm.

  “I’d better go,” Cedric said, sounding like he would rather do anything else. “They’ll be waiting for me.”

  “I wish we could tell your friends,” John said tentatively. “About us.”

  “We will,” Cedric promised. “One day. When all this is over. With that Skeeter woman crawling about you’d get shoved into spotlight. I don’t want that.”

  “Me neither, I guess,” John sighed. “But, one day?”

  “One day,” Cedric smiled and pressed his lips against John’s in a chaste kiss that lingered long after they’d said goodbye at the end of the corridor.

  The first task wasn’t due to start until after lunch, and throughout the morning John couldn’t keep his attention fixed on anything. Their first lesson, History of Magic, wasn’t exactly gripping at the best of times, though today John couldn’t even drift off into a doze. He kept his eyes fixed on the open window, Professor Binns’ droning voice washing over him without making so much as a dent in his lack of concentration. It wasn’t much better in the second lesson, and by the time lunch rolled around he felt rather like he was walking through a haze of distracted nerves. If it felt this way for him, then God alone knew what Cedric and Harry were feeling. And, he supposed, Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour. But at least the three of them had entered their own names into the Goblet of Fire. As he sat down with Molly at the Gryffindor table for lunch – Sherlock’s face was, again, buried in a book (at this rate he could give Hermione a run for her money) – he glanced down at where Harry was sitting, Hermione trying to wheedle some food into him. His face was chalk-white, and went positively green when, after the plates had cleared, Professor McGonagall approached to tell him it was time to prepare for the task. He gave Harry the thumbs-up as he passed by, and Molly wished him luck. Even Sherlock offered what John guessed he thought was an encouraging smile, but looked slightly sarcastic due to Sherlock lack of experience in wishing people well.

  Once they’d finished their food – John barely tasting his, the sausages and mashed potato might as well have been cardboard and cotton wool – he, Sherlock and Molly walked with Hermione to where the stadium had been erected a short way into the forest. Hermione looked as nervous as John felt, and Molly put a comforting arm round her shoulders. John saw Ron walking with Dean and Seamus a short distance away, and he gave him a scowl that he hoped Ron noticed. He hoped perhaps Ron might come to his senses after seeing the task – and appreciating how frightened Harry was, how absolutely impossible it was to imagine he’d submitted his own name for the draw.  

  Wooded benches had been arranged in a rough circle around the rocky terrain in the centre of the stadium. The students from Beauxbatons had already seated themselves on the stands left of the judges’ panel, and there was the cluster of fur-clad Durmstrangs, singing what sounded like a Bulgarian Quidditch chant. John turned his eyes to the champions’ tent, thinking about Cedric in there with Harry, Krum and Fleur Delacour. He knew Cedric had been practicing every defensive spell he knew for weeks in preparation for the task, even before he knew what it was going to be. Now he knew it involved facing a full-grown dragon, John wondered what his plan of action was. The couple of times he’d tried to bring up the subject, Cedric hadn’t wanted to think about it – not in their private time.

  “Where d’you want to sit?” Molly asked.

  They chose seats a little way up from the front balustrade, next to a couple of Hufflepuff girls clutching yellow-and-black flags. John looked disapprovingly at the “Support Cedric Diggory” badges they had pinned to the front of their robes. He hated those things, and he knew Cedric didn’t like them either. He’d have expected it from jerks like Malfoy and Moriarty, but not so many of the others. One of the girls spotted John’s frosty stare and shuffled away from him.

  Four of the judges – Dumbledore, Madame Maxime, Karkaroff and Mr. Crouch – were taking their places on the podium opposite the champions’ tent. John guessed Ludo Bagman was in the tent, preparing the champions for what was to come. John thought Dumbledore looked rather harassed, but Karkaroff was looking positively chirpy. John suspected he was secretly hoping some dreadful accident might befall Harry while he was facing his dragon, even though there were wizards standing guard at the edge of the arena ready to jump in if things got out of control.

  It took another ten minutes for the rest of the seats to fill up. Finally, when a group of Ravenclaws had filled the last row, Dumbledore got to his feet and held up his hands to silence the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “While Mr. Bagman is briefing our four champions on their task today, allow me to do the same for you. As you may have guessed already, the aim of this challenge is for each of our champions, in turn, to get past their dragon and collect the golden egg.” Dumbledore gestured to the gleaming egg nestled amongst the plain grey ones in the centre of the rocky terrain. John wondered how they must be feeling right now – the words ‘scared shitless’ came to mind.

  “On the sound of the first whistle,” Dumbledore continued, “our first challenger shall enter the arena. Please give your most enthusiastic cheers for. . .”

  A shrill whistle sounded and, a moment later, Cedric came walking out of the tent. His face was ashen and he seemed to be having a little trouble operating his legs smoothly.

  “Cedric Diggory!” Dumbledore called, and sat down as Ludo Bagman, a little red in the face, took his place as commentator, magnifying his voice as he’d done at the World Cup.

  Time turned to syrup as John watched Cedric – occasionally through parted fingers – face down his Swedish Short-Snout with nothing but his wand for defence. John knew magic could do damage beyond what most Muggles could do, but he still felt he’d feel calmer if Cedric was armed with an AK-47 rather than a stick. He gripped tight onto Molly’s hand as they watched Cedric dart from rock to rock, very nearly grabbing the egg before his way was blocked very suddenly by the Short-Snout’s trunk-like tail, almost sending Cedric stumbling off the ledge. 

  “Oooh, narrow miss, there, very narrow!” Bagman said, but John was barely listening to him. All his attention was fixed on Cedric as he gathered his wits and made a detour behind a ring of small boulders, aiming a jet of golden light from his wand at the dragon’s face, only for it to be deflected by a large, leathery wing. While the wing was obscuring the dragon’s vision, Cedric made a scrambling leap for the egg pile, only just avoiding a spurt of bright blue flame from the dragon’s nostrils.

  “He’s taking risks, this one!” Bagman said. A large group of Hufflepuff girls on the opposite side of the stands had started some kind of chant to encourage Cedric, though the look of concentration mixed with a lingering panic on his face proved he wasn’t really listening.

  John saw his eyebrows furrow as he glanced at the dragon and then made a dash for the eggs, dodging at the very last minutes so quickly the dragon barely noticed him dart under the gap beneath its tail. His voice could just be heard over the dragon’s roars shouting, “ _Incarcerous!_ ”

  A long vine of thick rope erupted from the end of his wand, entwining itself multiple times around the Short-Snout’s thick back legs. For a moment, it looked as though the beast might tumble, but with a furious bellow it broke its ankles free as though the rope were no thicker than spider thread. Cedric cursed loudly as Bagman shouted, “ _Clever_ move – pity it didn’t work!”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Sherlock snorted.

  It finally ended when Cedric pointed his wand, not at the dragon, but at a small rock some ten yards from his feet. It vibrated for a moment before transforming into a small yellow Labrador, which when running, barking loudly, in the opposite direction. Miraculously, the dragon was distracted – if only until the very last minute, when, as his fingers closed around the golden egg, it turned it’s horrible head and sent a spurt of fire that grazed Cedric just below his ribs. John’s hands flew to his mouth and he felt Molly’s hands grip his arm. He thought he even felt Sherlock stiffen a little, as Cedric clutched his side, egg still grasped in his hand, the dragon being hastily subdued by the guards, while Cedric half-stumbled back to the champion’s tent.

  John wanted to leap up and run after him, to see that he was alright, but Molly’s hand in his calmed him a little. “He’ll be fine,” she said soothingly, though she was pretty white. “It was just a nick.”

  “Did you know Swedish Short-Snout fire is hot enough to melt rocks?” Sherlock added. A large part of John wanted to place his hands round Sherlock’s throat, but the part that didn’t want to cause a scene advised him it wasn’t the best idea.

OoOoOoOoO

John could only match the merriment of the party the Gryffindors threw for Harry that evening to that which they’d had last year – when Gryffindor won the Quidditch Cup. It was good to see Harry smiling again, and Ron had finally come round his senses. They were sitting together with Hermione on one of the sofas, laughing at some joke Fred and George had just made. John and Molly were perched on seats by the boys’ dormitory steps, Sherlock sitting cross-legged at their feet with a book open in his lap, a small pile of chocolate frogs at his side. John knew the Hufflepuffs would be holding a similar celebration in their own Common Room and sighed a little wistfully. He hadn’t had a chance to really talk to Cedric since the task finished, as he’d been so mobbed with friends and pretty girls that getting within five feet of him had proved impossible. Still, he was thankful all the same that Cedric’s injury from the fire hadn’t been severe, and he was having a good time nonetheless.

  Glancing away from the slight commotion in the middle of the room cause by Neville turning into a huge canary, John’s eyes fixed on the top of Sherlock’s head. He took a moment to admire the way his dark curls brushed his pale skin, the elegant slope of his neck as it curved gently into his shoulder. Despite the secret he and Cedric now shared, he couldn’t deny there was still a faint flutter in his chest at the way Sherlock bent his head back to stretch his neck – cramped from extensive reading, his eyes closed, his inky lashes overlapping each other.

  It was nearing one o’clock when the party slowly drew to a close. The room was a mess, and John felt sorry for the House Elf whose job it would be to clean it tomorrow morning. Under the advice from Molly that, were he to head back to Ravenclaw Tower now, he would get in serious trouble for wandering the school corridors so late, Sherlock settled himself down to sleep on the largest sofa.

  “Might as well give him a bed in the dormitory,” John heard Ron mutter to Harry as he ascended the stairs, the two other boys behind him with Seamus and Dean.

  “He feels more comfortable here than in Ravenclaw,” John said over his shoulder, frowning a little at the tall redhead. He was still feeling a little frosty towards Ron for his behaviour towards Harry in the past few weeks.

  “Just saying,” Ron said.

  Fifteen minutes later, John slid into bed with images of the day’s events rolling through his mind. He wondered what the second task would involve. It couldn’t be more dangerous than facing down a full-grown dragon, could it? The screeching racket from Harry’s egg certainly hadn’t offered any particular clue. John suspected Sherlock might have a perfect idea of what it had meant, but he hadn’t been exactly chatty that evening. He hadn’t been very talkative since they became friends again, really. But getting Sherlock to talk about his emotions was like drawing water from stone. Like drawing _jam_ from stone. He rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes. It felt like just a split second before he was woken again, though the clock he kept on his bedside table informed him it was 2:10. He almost had a heart attack when he saw the tall figure standing beside the bed, staring expressionlessly down at him.

  “Jesus, Sherlock!” he tried to keep his voice down, feeling the heat rise in his face as his heartbeat continued to race with the shock. “”What are you doing?”

  Sherlock didn’t speak for a minute, and when he did his only contribution was, “It’s cold.”

  “What, downstairs?”

  Sherlock nodded and John shifted awkwardly into a sitting position. Was Sherlock _actually_ requesting to share his bed for the night? Somehow it didn’t quite add up. Sherlock knew how John felt – _had_ felt, John reminded himself – about him, and the idea had seemed so abhorrent to him. Why would he now put himself in such close proximity to John? The boy’s mind was a labyrinth – who could possibly know how he worked?

  “Do you. . . want to sleep in here?”

  Another pause. Then Sherlock nodded again. John slowly shuffled to the edge of the bed – just as well it was slightly bigger than a normal single – and watched disbelievingly as Sherlock lifted the covers and nestled his head down on the pillow. John stared at him for a while, before carefully lying flat, his body as far from Sherlock’s without ending up on the floor. He was so incredibly conscious about Sherlock’s figure lying just inches from his own. His senses seemed heightened – he could feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock’s back onto his own, hear the deep intakes of his breathing, smell the faint musk of his clothes and the shampoo in his hair. He closed his eyes again, this time to try and block the thoughts that were presenting themselves to his sleepy mind. The fact that, were he to roll over just a little, he would be close enough to entwine his arms around Sherlock’s waist, to bury his face in the crook of his neck, to kiss. . .

  No! He mentally slapped himself. He was with Cedric now. It was Cedric he loved, not Sherlock. Cedric who he would see tomorrow and congratulate on his performance today. They would hopefully find some secluded part of the castle or grounds to enjoy a brief moment together. There was no point in thinking about Sherlock that way anymore – it wouldn’t do any good and what was the point when he had a guy like Cedric waiting for him? With this thought firmly planted in his mind, John relaxed a little and felt himself drift off again.

OoOoOoOoO

Sherlock’s heart was pounding. Seriously, like someone was banging a drum inside his chest. He was attempting to keep his breathing steady, but he was certain John would hear it eventually. His elbows and knees were practically hanging off the edge of the bed so he wouldn’t accidentally brush against John’s body. What could he have been thinking? But then, it _had_ been cold downstairs, even with the embers still glowing in the fireplace. And he wasn’t going to be lie – he needed to be close to John. Despite the fear skipping through his brain, there was a certain warmth in the knowledge that just one small movement would bring him as close to John as he’d wanted to be for quite a while. He remembered the words of that Beauxbatons girl - _“Because you look ready to snap, and pretty soon you will.”_ It wouldn’t do for him to ‘snap’ right now, with John so close to him. Maybe he’d better leave – an Disillusionment Charm would get him through the corridors to Ravenclaw Tower. But then he’d have to solve the damn riddle. He’d always been bad at those since day one – his mind just didn’t work with _that_ kind of intellect. Then if he couldn’t give a satisfactory answer he’d be stuck outside until the morning. No, as long as he didn’t think anything inappropriate, he’d be okay.

  Of course, his mind decided to throw every wildly inappropriate thought it could muster at him.

OoOoOoOoO

After a fitful night’s sleep, John woke to the sound of birds outside the open window by his bed. It was 6:17, and none of the other boys were awake yet. Good – that meant Sherlock could go back downstairs to the sofa and no-one would know they’d shared the bed. Gingerly, he rolled his hips over to face the other way, where Sherlock was still sleeping too. John was about to give his shoulder a shake to rouse him, when his friend moved slightly his sleep and mumbled something. Something that made John’s heart jump.

  His name.

  “Sh-Sherlock?” he whispered.

  “Mmm. . .” Sherlock rolled onto his back, eyes still closed. God, he was beautiful, there was no denying it. Nor was there denying the feeling of unbridled joy that shot through John like a bullet as Sherlock’s lips formed that one word again. Then he pulled himself up short. Just wait a moment. Sherlock could be dreaming anything – just because he said John’s name didn’t mean anything. They could be eating breakfast in his dream for, all he knew and Sherlock was asking him to pass the milk.

  “Sherlock,” he said again, a little louder, giving his shoulder a vigorous shake. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he sat up so suddenly he almost tumbled out of the bed.

  “What? What?” he said, looking vaguely panicked.

  “It’s morning,” John said, making frantic shushing gestures so he wouldn’t wake the others. “You have to go back downstairs.”

  “Oh, right, yes,” Sherlock was up and out of the room so quickly John didn’t even get a chance to say ‘see you later’. He was also surprised to hear the portrait hole slam shut. Sherlock hadn’t thought he’d meant he had to leave, had he? He wasn’t kicking him out – he just didn’t want the others (especially Seamus and Ron, who would be the most suggestive) to know they’d shared a bed. Wondering if even Sherlock knew how his mind worked sometimes, John settled back down for another couple of hours sleep.

OoOoOoOoO

Fuck it all.

  Fuck dignity, fuck not lowering himself to base level, he didn’t care. Not right now, anyway. Not with his uncomfortably hard erection pressing against the fabric of his trousers, practically begging to be released. Sherlock almost flew down the stairs and corridors to the boys’ bathroom. He tore his robes from his body, leaving them with the rest of his clothes in a crumpled heap on the side, and slammed one of the cubicle doors behind him, setting the spray to the highest strength. He was startled to find himself almost whimpering in suppressed lust as he allowed himself – for the very first time – to wrap his long fingers around the rigid flesh now exposed between his legs. Instinctively he began stroking himself up and down the shaft, his head leaned back against the tiled wall, hot water running down his torso. His mind happily brought back every sordid detail of the dream he’d been having before John woke him – the way they’d been kissing, naked against the sheets of a nondescript bed, the way John’s fingers had worked him into such a sexual frenzy he’d literally ripped the clothes from him, pressing their bare bodies together, melted together in lust and the need for closeness.

  Sherlock pumped himself faster, feeling pathetic and wretched for allowing himself this pleasure. It wasn’t supposed to be like this – he wasn’t supposed to feel this way, about _anyone_ , let alone John. Love was just a distraction to be overcome, _lust_ completely unthought-of. His face screwed up against the heat rising in his groin, he let out an echoing exclamation to the ceiling. Faster, come on, just a bit more, let it be over, let me be normal again, please, feels good, let me— let me— “Ugh, ahhh!”

  As he shamefully washed the sticky white substance from his fingers, Sherlock felt his knees shaking. That was unlike anything he had experienced before in his life. Waves of pleasure were still racking through him, an electric warmth spreading right to the tips of his fingers, pooled like cold fire in the pit of his stomach. He felt strangely humbled. So that’s why people sought love so much, if that’s what the result was. Why else go through all that pain? Surely there couldn’t be anything else?

  Gathering his clothes into a more civilised pile as he dried himself, Sherlock tried not to think of the smug expression on that Beauxbatons girl. He hoped to Merlin he would not encounter her again anytime soon – he couldn’t bear for her to know she’d been right.

  

     

 

  

                  

 

 

 

 

 

      

****


	6. Chapter 6

“Don’t you think you could let them down just a little bit more gently?” John sighed as he watched the third girl that day walk dejectedly back towards the castle.

  “What d’you mean?” Sherlock asked, staring out across the lake without so much as a guilty grimace. “She asked me a question, I gave her an answer.”

  “But could you perhaps not smirk quite so much while you do it?”

  “This whole business is such a bore,” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. “I’ll be relieved when it’s over.”

  “So you’re really not going.”

  “Of course not.”

  John shook his head. “C’mon, why miss out? The food’ll be great. The Weird Sisters’ll be there.”

  “This is supposed to be persuading me?”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have to admit, I’m surprised,” Greg said from where he was relaxing on the grass, one arm thrown over his eyes.

  “You honestly thought I’d go?” Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow.

  “No,” Greg smirked. “I’m surprised so many girls are asking you. Most of them think you’re a creep.”

  “How nice for them,” Sherlock scowled. “I notice you’re not exactly swimming in offers.”

  Greg lifted his arm and raised his head to look at him. “I’m holding out,” he said. “Don’t want to say yes to just any chick.”

  “Meaning you’ve still not worked up the guts to ask Molly,” John said. Sherlock grinned and Greg aimed a kick in John’s direction.

  “So,” John turned his attention back to Sherlock, “you won’t say yes to _any_ girl?”

  After a moment of contemplation, Sherlock seemed to decide not answering was the best decision, which intrigued John greatly. _Could_ there be a girl Sherlock fancied? It couldn’t be completely impossible. Perhaps one of the Beauxbatons girls – they seemed to charm pretty much every other boy at Hogwarts, why should Sherlock be immune? There was one particular girl who John had recently noticed giving him flirtatious glances when they were in the same vicinity, though he didn’t know her name. He wasn’t entirely sure how this made him feel, despite his determination not to think of Sherlock in that way anymore.

  A new atmosphere of excitement and anticipation had fallen over the school since the announcement of the Yule Ball, though this was almost unanimously amongst the girls. Most of them now seemed to spend most of the day giggling and discussing what dress robes they were going to wear. He’d even heard Molly talking to Parvati and Lavender about which shoes would look best with her dress robes. John thought about the robes he’d purchased from Madam Malkin’s during the summer, folded neatly away in his trunk. He’d wanted to go with just plain black, as he’d be less likely to stand out, but his mother had insisted on an ensemble of dark teal, saying it was more attractive (and made him look like “a gorgeous little prince, poppet!”). Harriet had laughed herself sick when she saw them. He knew Cedric would probably have gone for black, his parents being something of traditionalists.

  Despite his reprimanding of Sherlock, John wasn’t exactly sold on the idea of what was essentially Prom Night at Hogwarts. He might be gay but that didn’t mean he liked dancing. In truth, he was only really going for (as he’d tried to bait Sherlock with) the food and the band. If it weren’t for the fact that Greg was so gone on her, he would have asked Molly to go with him just as friends. As a Hogwarts champion, Cedric was obliged by tradition to have a partner, and something told John he wouldn’t be a suitable candidate. He wasn’t sure if the _rules_ stated you couldn’t invite a partner of the same gender, and he was fairly certain Dumbledore wouldn’t raise too much objection, but the news that Cedric Diggory was dating a younger boy might cause something of a stir. It might even get into the _Daily Prophet_ with that quill-sucking bitch Rita Skeeter still hanging around. Amos Diggory might hunt John down and skin him alive if that happened.

  The fact of this hung over the two boys like an awkward cloud in the weeks leading up to Christmas, though they didn’t talk about it. Cedric could have his pick of pretty much any girl in the school now. John suspected Harry too would have a fair share of fans queuing up to ask him, though he doubted Harry would have the confidence to ask anyone outright. Any moron could see who he’d _like_ to ask – the way he mooned over Cho whenever she walked past was enough to alert _anyone_ to his obvious crush on her. He wondered why Cho just didn’t ask him herself, but he suspected she was waiting for him to make the first move, as it would be more romantic. Well, she’d be waiting a while.

  As John had anticipated, at least two dozen girls had presented themselves to Cedric as potential Ball partners, all of them crestfallen when he had kindly but firmly rejected their advances. In contrast to Sherlock, however, this made Cedric extremely uncomfortable.

  “I hate this,” he complained to John at their next rendezvous the following evening.

  “Another one?” John looked up from the Charms essay he was finishing in a secluded corner of the Library. Sherlock was serving a late detention with Snape for some misdeed, so he was alone.

  “This one actually cried,” Cedric slumped into a chair and kneaded the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I felt like a complete dick.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” John cupped the older boy’s knee under the table.

  “I’m going to have to say yes to one of them, eventually,” Cedric said, raising his gaze to meet John’s.

  John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes fixed on the nib of his quill, darkening the word _incantation_ with repetitive strokes. “Yeah, I know, Ced,” he said.

  “John,” the serious tone in Cedric’s voice made him look up, the Hufflepuff’s intense grey eyes staring right into him.

  “What?” John said. “I know you have to. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

  A smile spread slowly across Cedric’s handsome face, and John felt his insides warm despite his frustration.

  “I love you,” Cedric said.

  “I know,” John smiled back. “Me too.”

  “I really mean it, though,” Cedric reached out a hand to touch John’s cheek. “You mean everything to me, John. Don’t forget that. I’d do anything for you.”

  “Jesus, Ced,” John laughed, surprised by this sudden rush of affection. “What’s brought this on?”

  Cedric leaned across the table and put his mouth close to John’s ear, his breath whispering against the soft skin of his neck. John felt a surge of feeling spread through his body, coming to rest in the very pit of his stomach, curling down to his lap. Cedric placed his other hand gently on his thigh, his long fingers just brushing the seam of his zip. John gave a furtive glance through the surrounding bookshelves for Madam Pince, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cedric breathed, and John nodded his compliance, packing away his books and stationary in such an urgency he almost left his nearly-finished essay on the table.

  They had barely made it out of the Library when Cedric’s hands found John again, his fingertips brushing under the smaller boy’s sweater to caress the skin beneath, his lips immediately finding the sensitive spot at the crook of John’s shoulder.

  “Wait,” John protested against his body’s will. “Not here. . . someone will see. . .”

  They eventually found a deserted classroom a floor above and snapped the door shut, Cedric muttering a hasty locking spell on the door handle before gathering John into his arms and kissing him so fervently he almost lifted him from the floor. John barely had time to respond before Cedric’s hands were on him, pushing right beneath his sweater and shirt up to his chest. John was having trouble catching breath as Cedric’s teeth bit gently on his lower lip, drawing it into his mouth and then caressing John’s tongue with his own. His fingers found one of John’s nipples and he squeezed lightly, triggering goose-bumps on John’s skin. He took a couple of slow steps forward and John found himself pressed against the classroom wall. Cedric gathered John’s upper clothes around his underarms and bent his head to run his warm tongue once, twice, against John’s hardened nipple. John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the stimulation of the sensitive flesh setting his body suddenly alert. He registered one of Cedric’s hands moving steadily down his back to the waistband of his trousers, cupping John’s cheek through his boxers. His heart was hammering against his chest – lust and nerves making his whole body tremble as Cedric set his thigh firmly against his groin, a whirlwind of sensation stirring there at the contact.

  “John,” Cedric said softly. “I want to make you feel good.”

  “You do,” John muttered, his teeth gritted.

  “I want it to be better,” Cedric continued, his fingers toying cautiously at the zipper of John’s trousers, his teeth pinching a gentle bite on his earlobe. “D’you want that?”

  John only nodded.

  Cedric’s head dropped from his peripheral vision and he felt his hands making quick work of his zip. His face flushed in awkward embarrassment as Cedric’s fingers dipped below the elastic of his boxers, freeing his semi-erection from its confines. He felt a momentary sharpness at the cool air on the sensitive skin, replaced in a moment by a mouth-watering warmth as Cedric’s lips wrapped around it and he took all of him deep into the recess of his throat. John gave an involuntary cry of pleasure, immediately clapping his hands over his mouth, terrified someone would hear and discover them in such a compromising position. _Oral sex in classroom_ was not something he particularly wanted on a recorded detention slip in Filch’s filing cabinet. He felt himself spring to full attention as Cedric pulled back slowly, agonisingly, the slight roughness of his tongue trailing the underside of his shaft, pausing to flick over the head, before plunging back down to the hilt. John didn’t know if this was Cedric’s first time, but in that moment it wasn’t humanly possible for him to care any less. He screwed his eyes shut and leaned his head back against the wall, his teeth hard on his index finger to prevent himself from crying aloud, his breath coming in deep pants and low moans. He unconsciously reached down and threaded the fingers of his left hand through Cedric’s thick hair, the muscles in his arm tracing the rhythmic back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a glorious pendulum. . .

  “Ugh. . . oh, god, Sher—”

  John’s eyes flew open and almost bit right through his tongue to stop himself finishing the word he’d been about to moan in his desire-laced high. He thanked any god who might have been listening at that moment that Cedric didn’t appear to have noticed which name John had been about to say, but gripped his fingers tighter against John’s hip and quickened his speed. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, frustrated to the point of screaming. It was so unfair. _So. Fucking. Unfair_. He – normal, boring John Watson – had good, sweet, loyal Cedric Diggory literally on his knees and yet all his mind could let him think about was Sherlock bloody Holmes – awkward, impossible, rude, beautiful, vulnerable Sherlock Holmes. Change the _fucking_ record!

  He came in a judder of white hot, anguished lust, the sensation of Cedric’s throat contracting around him as he swallowed all John gave him enough to make John weep with pleasure. He let Cedric’s arms envelop him, buried his face in his chest, fingers gripping desperately to the back of his robes as Cedric told him he loved him, that he was beautiful, that he was his and his alone. John masked his frustration with a smile that promised the return of Cedric’s words as his heart broke for the boy who was risking his whole reputation to be with him.

  Was this how it was going to be from now on, he thought to himself as he traipsed back through the corridors to the Gryffindor Common Room. Was it normal, or even possible, to like two people this much at the same time? It was the corniest love triangle ever – one guy at his beck and call, another just beyond his reach. John felt disgusted with himself, like he was playing Cedric along, but the idea of losing him was just as horrible.

  Sherlock wasn’t in the Common Room when John got there so, presuming he’d returned to his own after his detention was over, John went straight up to the dormitory and collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the canvas without seeing it. His knees still felt weak after his previous activities. It had felt so incredible, he couldn’t think of words to describe it. He wondered what it would feel like to have Sherlock’s lips on him like that, his cupid’s bow like a filthy halo around his cock. . .

  “Stop!” he chastised himself aloud, giving his short hair a sharp tug, as though that would keep such thoughts from his head. What the fuck was he going to do now?

oOoOo

Sherlock slid, breathless, down the tiles  of the shower cubicle, his long legs ungainly as his butt made contact with the floor, his fingers still clasped around his waning erection. It was late – he should have been back at Ravenclaw Tower two hours ago – but his brain had simply refused to rest until he’d let off some steam, and this seemed to be the only way he could do so nowadays. It sickened him to give in to physical pleasure as a way to wind down, but it was becoming almost like an addiction – the combination of bliss at his own hand combined with thoughts of John touching him was so good, he’d have to have been dead not to succumb to it at least once or twice. Or four times in the past week alone.

  It wasn’t just in the evening that it happened, either. It could be morning, afternoon, or even in the middle of the night after a particularly erotic dream, and it was really fucking annoying. He was starting to feel like a drug addict, and it was starting to become noticeable. His lack of sleep was making him look and feel like an inferius, and he was having trouble concentrating on anything if John was nearby. Which, of course, was slightly problematic when his best friend was at his side at almost every moment between classes. Sherlock sometimes wasn’t sure if he recognised the person he’d become anymore. If someone had told him four years ago, or even two years ago, that he would one day be huddled naked in a deserted bathroom, riding out an orgasm inspired by the best friend he was in love with, he’d have presumed they’d been hit with a Confundus charm. But here he was, nonetheless. And it _sucked_.

  Sherlock hated this, being such a pathetic ball of angst. He hated angst. He was a genius, damn it – angst was _not_ on his agenda. But then love hadn’t been, either, and look how that one had turned out. He blew out his cheeks and rested his head against the tiled wall with a small bump. So here he was, in this sorry situation. After he’d cleaned himself up, he dried off and dressed back into the robes he’d thrown haphazardly on the bench. Rinse and repeat. It was closing on ten as he wandered slowly through the castle corridors, but despite the fact that he was one hour outside of the curfew, he was barely paying attention as he returned to the dormitory, eyes on his steps, one foot before the other, his brain fuzzy with the numbness that followed these late-night excursions. His mind revolved somehow to the Yule Ball. He supposed Diggory would ask John. _No, of course he wouldn’t, don’t be so stupid,_ he scolded himself. Diggory would have to ask some girl to accompany him, as the first dance tradition of the Triwizard champions would require him to do. He imagined John would be upset by this, even though it wouldn’t mean anything. Diggory was completely infatuated with John, Sherlock could see now. The way he looked at him when they were alone, those few times Sherlock had followed them to their secret rendezvous locations, only to back out when they got too intimate. He wasn’t a masochist, after all. He wondered how long it would be before their affections led them to do something more than just kissing. Diggory was seventeen – in the prime of youthful vigour – surely he must have those primal urges. But John was only fourteen, and Sherlock was sure Diggory wouldn’t want to break the law in order to seduce him. He was too. . . _good_ for that. Sherlock also wondered if, were the tables turned, _he_ would be so considerate. Ever since he was a child, he’d always sought the fastest and most effective way to get what he wanted. He was just selfish like that. He’d had little regard for other people’s needs and wants – what were they to him in the great scheme of things? Thinking of others only blocked the path to reaching one’s own objectives. What would happen if he simply decided to take John from Diggory? He knew how to flirt. He’d watched Mycroft do it enough times with the young women at their mother’s socialite parties, laughing sycophantically at their jokes and complimenting them on their looks. Would John fall for that? Probably not. He’d once thought John easy to read, just like everyone else, except since that day they’d made up, he’d been able to see a certain complexity to John that he’d not anticipated. He didn’t know what John liked in a relationship. Would he like the thrill of the chase, or the security of a steady partner? It all essentially came down to would he prefer Sherlock himself, or Diggory. Diggory had qualities Sherlock would never have – openness, honesty, kindness just for the sake of being kind, and those infuriatingly perfect facial features.

  Sherlock was disturbed from his internal monologue by the realisation he’d somehow ended up, not at Ravenclaw Tower as he’d intended, but at the portrait of the Fat Lady. Oh well, no use traipsing all the way back now.

  “Fairy lights,” he said to the portrait, who was snoozing inside her frame. She jerked awake and admitted him with a regal wave.

  The Common Room was deserted, as he’d hoped it would be. Wait, no it wasn’t. Curled up in one of the squashy armchairs was Hermione Granger, her head resting against the pages of a large book, her S.P.E.W. collecting tin set on the table in front of her. In a moment of rare consideration, Sherlock seated himself down on the opposite sofa as quietly as he could, in an attempt not to wake her. The fire in the grate was burning low, the soft orange light highlighting a few faint gold highlights in her bushy brown hair. She was quite pretty really, Sherlock thought, surprising himself at his continued softness towards his intellectual rival. Since her teeth had been returned to normal – a few millimetres shorter than before, he’d noted – after Harry’s run-in with Malfoy, the change was really quite noticeable.

  A log tumbled from the grate with a loud thud, and Hermione’s head lifted abruptly, blinking blearily. She dimly registered him watching her from the sofa and gave a sleepy smile.

  “Long day?” Sherlock asked.

  “A bit,” she said, smoothing the page of the book she’d been napping on and closing the cover. Sherlock glanced at the words printed on the leather binding – _A History of the Wizarding Household_. More research for her House-Elf rights campaign. He then realised that Hermione was staring at him, her head cocked a little to one side.

  “What?”

  “Sherlock,” she said, leaning forward a little. “Are you okay? You seem sad lately.”

  Sherlock blinked, surprised at the question. He and Hermione had never exactly been friendly – they’d barely spoken at all during their acquaintance – so why did she suddenly seem genuinely concerned about his well-being? She had that same tiny crease between her eyebrows that John got when he was worried. Perhaps it was because, like John, she was just. . . nice. Kind. Sherlock wished it came so naturally to him.

  “It can’t be easy,” she continued, resting her chin in her hand and smiling sympathetically.

  “What can’t?”

  “Seeing John with Cedric Diggory.”

  Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  She smiled wider. “You’re just like Ron,” she said. “You’re angry to hide your feelings.”

  He frowned at being compared to Weasley – the guy was a moron. “I’m not hiding anything. And I don’t need your sympathy,” he snapped, immediately regretting it. Niceness really _wasn’t_ natural for him.

  Hermione just shrugged. “Whatever,” she said, sounding disappointed rather than upset. “Goodnight.” She tucked her book and tin under her arm and started in the direction of the girls’ dorms.

  “Granger, wait,” Sherlock said, louder than he’d intended.

  Hermione turned at the foot of the spiral stairs and looked at him. “What?”

  Sherlock swallowed. He wasn’t exactly sure what had inspired him to do what he was about to – perhaps it was the fact that he was tired of keeping his secret for so long. As much as he didn’t like to depend on people, just this once he needed to. Hermione wouldn’t laugh. He could tell her, right?

  “I love John.” There was no point in tiptoeing around the issue.

  Hermione’s brown eyes widened, her mouth falling open a little. Sherlock forced himself to keep looking at her, despite his urge to throw himself into the fire in embarrassment, or possibly out of the window. Slowly, Hermione set her book and tin down on a nearby table, then walked over to take a seat next to Sherlock on the sofa. Cautiously, expecting him to tug away, she reached over and placed her hand on his, and he found himself closing fingers around hers. It was a strange feeling, almost pleasant.

  “For how long?” she asked, her voice soft.

  Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know. I only realised it a little while ago. Could’ve been longer. I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply. “I hate it.”

  “You hate being in love?” she clarified.

  “It’s terrible. The whole thing is utterly hateful,” Sherlock could hear the desperation in his own voice but once he’d started his tongue wouldn’t let him stop. “It hurts all the time, I can’t concentrate, and I have to watch him and that Hufflepuff half-wit mooning over each other like idiots.”

  “Are they. . .” Hermione cleared her throat awkwardly. “Are John and Cedric. . . together?”

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Sherlock said, his voice sharp again. “If the Slytherins found out—”

  “I know,” Hermione said. “I won’t. Oh, Sherlock.” She stroked his palm with her thumb. Sherlock was appalled that, at her soft tone and tender gesture, he felt a lump rise in his throat, his eyes starting to sting. He furiously brushed at his face with the back of his hand, dimly aware that Hermione had put her arm round his shoulders and was holding him. He turned his face into her shoulder and gripped the back of her robes. She stroked the back of his dark, curly head and muttered, “It’s alright.” It was a kind lie. 

  They sat there for a only a minute, before Sherlock became too embarrassed at his weakness and pulled away. Hermione seemed to understand, and just patted his shoulder while he recovered his composure.

  “Cedric can’t take John to the Yule Ball,” she observed after a moment’s silence. “There’s too much attention on him right now.”

  Sherlock allowed himself a brief second of cruel satisfaction, followed by a immediate wash of shame at his pleasure in Diggory’s misfortune, since it also fall onto John.

  “I assume you’re going with Krum?” Sherlock said, trying to elude the subject. He felt Hermione stiffen slightly beside him.

  “If it was anyone else I’d be amazed you knew,” she said, a faint blush rosying her cheeks. “But since it’s you, not so much.” She tried to hide an embarrassed smile. “He asked me the other day, as I was leaving the Library. His fan club wasn’t around,” she added dryly.

  “I noticed him staring at you,” Sherlock said. “Knew it was just a matter of time.”

  “You don’t miss anything, do you?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Sherlock said, loathed to admit it but in remembrance of his neglect to realise John’s previous feelings for him, his observational skills might not have been as keen as he’d once thought. If he’d known, would things have been different? Would he have reciprocated John’s affections then, or was it simply because John was beyond his reach that his need for him was so strong?

  After Hermione had said goodnight, Sherlock contemplated braving the long trek back to Ravenclaw Tower. He decided against it. Scrunched up on the sofa wasn’t ideal, but it was better than risking getting stuck on the stupid riddle and camping on the floor. He kicked off his shoes, tucking his socks into the toes, and removed his tie before tucking his cloak around himself as a makeshift blanket and closing his eyes, sleep overcoming him in a gentle wave.

oOoOo

Sherlock didn’t stir as, an hour or so later, the wooden skirting panel slid aside and the house-elf emerged from the secret passageway behind. She placed the candle gripped in her tiny hand on a nearby table, and clicked her fingers once, a broom, dustpan, and brush appearing in thin air before her. It wasn’t until she reached the centre of the room that she noticed the boy asleep on the sofa, his thin body curled to the side, one hand curled in a loose fist up to his lips. His shoes and tie were tossed carelessly onto the floor, his cloak slipping from his body to the floor. He was a subject of some curiosity amongst the house-elves – this peculiar Ravenclaw boy who spent many of his nights curled up in Gryffindor. He was not the first student to have been found where he should not have been, but he was certainly one of the most frequent of the misplaced.

  Setting her dustpan and brush on the low table, the elf tiptoed to the cupboard beside the window and, opening the door, withdrew the quilted blanket she had stored there last time she had found Sherlock asleep here. She gently pulled away his cloak, folding it neatly on the table, and draped the blanket over his legs and body, up to his shoulders. Sherlock gave a tiny frown and shifted slightly in his sleep, his lips closing a little over the tips of his fingers, a deep sigh reverberating through his nose.

  The elf gave his shoulder a tiny pat and set about the remainder of her cleaning duties, and when Sherlock awoke in the later hours, just as the pinkish gold light was creeping through the window, she was gone.     

oOoOo

The news that Cedric was going to be taking Cho Chang to the Yule Ball spread fairly quickly through the school, much to the anguish of the many girls who followed him around, doe-eyed and flutter-lashed, and it set John in an exceptionally bad mood.

  Listening to the multiple people who seemed to think Cedric and Cho were the perfect couple was enough to make him green with envy, especially as Cedric seemed to feel obliged to spend more time with her since the news became more widely known. Surprisingly, the only person who seemed almost as gloomy about this was Cho herself, though she kept up a good charade of appearing as happy as any girl would be in her situation. John seemed to be the only one who noticed that, once the attention was focused elsewhere, the smile slipped from her face like water on glass.

  He didn’t get a chance to question her about it until five days before the Ball, when he came across her morosely sitting alone in a corner of the Library near the beginning of lunch. John was supposed to be meeting Sherlock there, but since he still hadn’t appeared, he took advantage of this rare moment of solitude with Cho.

  “Hey,” he said, announcing his presence. She looked up and gave him a weak smile.

  “Hello,” she sighed. John sat down in the chair opposite her, folding his arms on the tabletop.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, forcing a slightly more convincing smile and leaning back in her chair. The light from a nearby lamp cast a golden glow on her black hair, emphasising the faint strands of deep mahogany. _Just like Sherlock’s_ , he thought, then mentally kicked himself.

  “Bullshit,” he said aloud, and Cho blinked in surprise. John shook his head. “Sorry, but any moron could see you’re not okay.”

  “I _am_ o—”

  “Spare me,” John sighed, running a hand over his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for guessing, Cho. Just tell me.”

  She looked as though she might argue, but eventually she just wilted. “It’s stupid,” she said.

  “Isn’t it always?”

  Cho didn’t seem to be listening, but launched into a monologue to the table, twisting a quill in her fingers. “I mean, I don’t resent him for it. I’m happy to do him a favour, but I only said yes because I didn’t think _he_ would ask me, and now he has and I’ve had to say I can’t because I’m already going with Cedric.”

  “Harry asked you to the Ball?” John said, surprised. “Didn’t think he’d ever get a move on.”

  “Well, now he has,” Cho grumbled. “And I can’t go with him. It’s so annoying.”

  “And now he’s going with Parvati Patil,” John added, rather unhelpfully he realised, as Cho’s pretty face screwed up and she buried it in her hands. _Oops_. John reached out a hand and awkwardly patted her arm. “Um. . .”

  He didn’t get much further than that, and it was with a surge of relief that Sherlock’s lanky figure appeared from around the bookshelves. He glanced at Cho, then to John, with amazed expression of confusion and wariness.

  After the best, slightly botched, words of comfort John could come up with, Cho gathered her belongings and left them alone. John leaned back in his seat as Sherlock took Cho’s vacated one, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and gazing out of the window. John took a moment to subtly admire the elegant curve of his jaw, tapering to his pointed chin. He almost longed for the days when he could simply pine for his unattainable best friend – it seemed less complicated than his current situation. He felt positively spoiled.

  However, over the next few days, he almost found himself avoiding Cedric, which was in such stark contrast to their usual closeness that even his housemates began to notice.

  “What’s up, Watson?” Seamus commented one evening with a smirk. “Had a tiff with your mate Diggory?”

  John ignored him, instead settling down to a game of chess with Molly. The truth was, while seeing Cedric walking down the corridors with Cho _did_ ignite the emerald sparks of jealousy in him, it also made him angry. More specifically, angry at Cedric. He must have known how this new arrangement would hurt John’s feelings, and yet he was doing it anyway. John still understood the importance of keeping up the pretence, but deep down he was beginning to heartily resent it. Why couldn’t Cedric just tell his father to stick his poxy attitude and let him do what he wanted? Their little secret trysts may have been enough for Cedric, but John was starting to crave more. If Cedric was really his, he wanted to walk down the corridor with him, hold his hand, let everyone know that _he_ was the one Cedric loved, no matter who knew it.

  Cedric seemed to pick up on this new-found temper of John’s and tried to talk to him about it, but every time John found himself staring into those beautiful grey eyes, all his anger melted away and he just wanted Cedric to hold him and kiss his anxieties out of existence. He found himself in such a situation the night before the Ball, when he and Cedric had agreed to meet in celebration of Christmas Eve. Almost everybody was outside enjoying the freshly fallen snow, and so it was actually quite easy for them to find a secluded spot for their rendezvous. There were a couple of disused rooms near the top of North Tower, and it was one of these in which they sat – John cradled between Cedric’s long legs, his back against the older boy’s chest – and gazed out of the snowy window.

  Cedric rested his chin on the top of John’s head and sighed deeply, tightening his grip on his hand.

  “You do know I wish it was you I was going with,” he said, for the millionth time. John turned to rest on his knees and kissed him, willing him not to spoil a perfectly wonderful moment with that constant reminder. He wrapped his legs around Cedric’s waist and settled himself neatly in his lap, pressing himself against him. Cedric smiled appreciatively but pulled away.

  “John,” he said, attempting to draw John’s attention back for a moment. John didn’t want to listen. He began to desperately fumble at Cedric’s shirt buttons, exposing the skin beneath, his fingers raking up to cup Cedric’s shoulders as he kissed his collarbone. Normally this was enough to pacify him, but not this time.

  “John,” he repeated, firmer this time. John shook his head and clambered heavily to his feet.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Ced,” he said, his mood dropping to the region of the dungeons hundreds of feet below. He felt the words tumble from his lips, desperate to be heard: “If you want it to be me so much, why isn’t it?”

  Cedric was silent for a moment, a look of agonised indecision on his handsome face. “You know why,” he said eventually.

  “Yeah, I know why,” John said harshly. “And you know what? It sucks. Not just for me but for Cho as well. You’re using her, Ced. Are you using me, too?”

  “No!” Cedric got to his feet, almost hitting his head on the low ceiling. “John, no.”

  “Well, it bloody feels that way sometimes,” John turned away and started towards the door.

  “Wait,” Cedric grabbed his hand and tried to pull him close.

  “Get off me,” John tugged away. He didn’t know why he was acting out all of a sudden, but it was proving rather difficult to stop. “I’m tired of this, Ced. I’m tired of creeping around all the time.”

  “You agreed this was best,” Cedric reasoned desperately. “We said we’d wait.”

  “Until when?”

  “I don’t know!” Cedric sounded angry now. “You think I’m enjoying this?”

  “No,” John said, narrowing his eyes. “I think you’re a coward.”

  “What?” Cedric’s mouth fell open in shock. “I’m—”

  “—not willing to fight for what you want,” John finished.

  “John, I can’t!” Cedric was actually glaring at him now. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. “Not now! D’you really think people will just accept us being together? That Skeeter bitch would make sure it was plastered over the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ by morning!”

  “If you really cared about me, that wouldn’t bother you!” John retorted. “You’d _want_ people to know!”

  “Well, I don’t!” Cedric shouted. “You think I _want_ people to know the person I’m going out with is just some kid—?”

  “ _Relashio_!” Cedric staggered backwards, landing with a heavy thump on the classroom floor, but John didn’t stay to see his reaction. His brain was surging as he stumbled down the spiral staircase. ‘Some kid’, was he? No, not the boy Cedric had said ‘I love you’ to, just some kid stupid enough to think Hufflepuff’s Golden Boy could possibly see him as anything different. Was it all just a game for Cedric? Leading John on with his good-guy persona just so he could get a kick? Perfect scenario, really – who would believe some random Gryffindor fourth year’s account against Cedric Diggory, school champion and student body hero?

  He could hear Cedric’s voice from above, but didn’t stop running until he reached the lower floor, wrenching aside the portrait of some past Herbology Professor, which he knew to hide a secret passageway that would let him escape whatever excuses Cedric was prepared to throw at him. He didn’t care if he was being ridiculous – he was too exhausted to care. He wondered if perhaps this was why he still found himself involuntarily attracted to Sherlock, because he never felt like he had all of Cedric? There was always that invisible barrier, impervious to his efforts to climb it, however easy it might have seemed not so long ago.

oOoOo

It was Christmas Day, and it was a stretch to Sherlock to decide who was more miserable – John or Cedric Diggory.

  He awoke in the early hours, dimly noticing the small pile of presents stacked neatly him on the low Common Room table, and gave a sleepy smile. He kicked aside the duvet that had slid down to his midriff at some point in the night and folded it as neatly as he could on the arm of the sofa. He’d intended to spend the night in Ravenclaw Tower, and meet John for breakfast, but his friend had been in such a low mood last night he’d been less inclined to leave. He wouldn’t say what had caused this new depression, though it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to guess it had something to do with Diggory. It caused a confusing confliction of emotions in Sherlock – curiosity, naturally, but partnered with sympathy and anger. He wanted to find Diggory and force him to confess – at wand-point, if necessary – what he had done to upset John so much. He wouldn’t even discuss it with Molly, which Sherlock found most intriguing. If anything occurred that John felt he couldn’t share with Sherlock – something ridiculous about ‘emotional imparity’ – he almost always consulted Molly. After John had dejectedly left the Common Room for an early night, Sherlock and Molly had shared a rare look of agreement – something was definitely wrong.

  Sherlock observed John carefully avoiding looking at the Hufflepuff table as they sat down, an act which Diggory chose _not_ to mirror. He was staring as though he could attract John’s attention just by willing it. He looked a little pale, Sherlock thought, and the shadows under his eyes were definitely more pronounced than they’d been the day before. Nobody else seemed to notice, though, as all anyone seemed interested in discussing was the Yule Ball that evening. He watched Molly’s concerned expression as she asked John what was wrong, to which he just shook his head. Sherlock’s eyes drifted over Molly’s shoulder to where Diggory was engaged in a rather forced-looking conversation with one of his friends. In a strange moment of synchronicity, Diggory’s flicked up to meet Sherlock’s, and they shared a rather meaningful few seconds of contact. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Diggory and shrugged his shoulders a fraction of an inch – _What’s going on?_ Cedric let out a long breath and shook his head – _Don’t ask._

  This strange connection was broken by the arrival of Lestrade, blocking Sherlock’s view to the Hufflepuff table as he squeezed himself between Molly and John. He gave the two boys a polite nod, the immediately diverted his attention to Molly, who gave a shy smile and took another bite of toast. Since she’d agreed to go to the Ball with him three days ago, Lestrade had seemingly undertaken the mentality that were he to leave her side for any length of time between classes she was likely to change her mind. Luckily for him, Molly didn’t seem to mind his constant presence.

  As they were leaving the Hall, the other three a few paces ahead of Sherlock, he kept his eyes fixed on John. He noted the tension when he moved his neck, the slight hunch of his shoulders, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans. He looked so woebegone, so tired, Sherlock felt a pang in his chest, which only intensified when John looked over his shoulder, his eyes finding Sherlock amongst the crowd heading for the Entrance Hall.

  “I’m going to Ravenclaw for a moment,” Sherlock said, to which John shrugged and followed Molly and Lestrade, now tentatively holding hands, outside into the snowy grounds.

  Sherlock could just see Diggory through the throng of people. Should he talk to him? What would he say? There could be no doubt that a rift had been opened between him and John – whatever the cause may be – and Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about it. He could hazard a guess that the problem most likely stemmed from Diggory’s reluctance to reveal their secret relationship to general knowledge, and his traditionalist father. Sherlock knew he should have been happy that not all was rosy between him and John, but at the same time he hated seeing John so unhappy.

  Sherlock Holmes wallowing in emotional turmoil – in what world had _that_ happened?

  The Common Room was almost empty when he stepped through the door into the airy chamber – only a couple of second-year girls playing chess in an alcove by the window. They both looked up and giggled when they spotted Sherlock, but he ignored them and headed straight up to the dorms. It always struck him as weird that _this_ was supposed to be the place in which he belonged. Here, with the light colours and high arches, books at every turn and a stupid riddle to answer.

  He reached under the bed that he occasionally slept in and pulled out the large package he had received that morning. He’d immediately recognised the neat, block-print writing as his dear brother’s, but confessed he was surprised when he opened the parcel to reveal its contents. Perhaps, given light of the circumstances, they might come in handy after all.

 

    

  

 

       

  

      

       

            

   


	7. Chapter Seven

** Chapter 7 **

**Author’s note:** **Hello all. My deepest apologies for my absence on this story. Life is such a annoying distraction! For those of you still here, thank you! So it’s happening – finally! – Sherlock is finally ready to confess his feelings for John! Could the Yule Ball be the perfect time?**

**Please let me know if you would like me to continue this series. Though quite frankly, I will continue anyway even if just one person says yes! Still have loads of great ideas for it! Review (please please please)!**

**oOoOo**

The Great Hall was already milling with couples when Sherlock entered the doors just after eight o’clock. He couldn’t see John yet, but that was alright – he wanted to time this exactly right. He adjusted his sleeves and worked his way around the crowed jostling for places at the dinner tables set throughout the hall. As he approached the high table, he caught sight of Potter sitting next to Parvati Patil, looking a little nervous. Sherlock’s eyes moved to Krum, beside whom sat Hermione Granger, smiling as though she couldn’t quite believe she was there. Then Sherlock spotted a familiar profile by the table closest to the champions and made a bee-line for it.

  “They fit you, then?” Mycroft Holmes said, when he noticed his brother approaching.

  “Yes,” Sherlock said, again adjusting the hems of his sleeves. Despite the amount of posh parties he’d been forced to attend in his childhood by his socialite mother, he’d never quite gotten used to the constrictiveness of dress robes. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the older Holmes said in a lofty manner. “Couldn’t have any brother of mine looking like a House Elf on such an occasion. Though I must admit I am surprised to see you here at all.”

  “So what would you have done with these if I’d returned them?” Sherlock said, gesturing at the grey silk cravat beneath his chin.

  “They would have been your next birthday present.” Mycroft took a sip of mulled wine and indicated to the seat beside him. “Since you’re here, you might as well join us. Just try not to talk to anybody important.”

  Ignoring this jibe, Sherlock pulled out the silver chair and tried to look as casual as possible. It would never do to admit that his brother’s company made him slightly nervous.

  “So, where is she?” he asked, glancing around the immediate area.

  “To whom are you referring?” Mycroft said, though his smirk made it clear he knew _exactly_ to whom Sherlock was referring.

  “The princess or duchess or whichever rich or famous female you could convince to come with you,” Sherlock prompted.

  “Oh,” Mycroft raised his head and nodded superciliously towards an incredibly beautiful girl in ivory lace robes, who was talking animatedly with Lugo Bagman. “Emiliana Forthwright.”

  “Stunning,” Sherlock observed without conviction. “However did you manage it?”

  “Looks aren’t everything, little brother,” Mycroft sighed, draining his goblet and placing it back on the table, where it immediately refilled. “She’s a frightful dancer. Not much in regards to brain power either, but her family breeds champion Abraxan horses and her father has powerful standing in the Wizengamot.”

  Sherlock snorted.

  “I do my research,” said Mycroft. “It might pay for you to do the same, if you want to get anywhere in this society. Incidentally, I notice you are unaccompanied.”

  Sherlock shrugged, attempting his old disdain. “You speak as if there’s anybody worth taking in this school.”

  Mycroft gave a crafty smile. “I would almost be willing to believe that, Sherlock, were it not for the painfully obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you’ve clearly been compromised by your affections for somebody. Why else would you be here?”

  “Maybe you should take up Sudoku,” Sherlock retorted. “Sharpen your deduction skills. I hear all the Muggles and Squibs are doing it nowadays.”

  Mycroft’s lip curled in distaste at the quip, but it didn’t dissuade him.

  “Young Master Watson didn’t wish to accompany you tonight then, did he?”

  Sherlock managed to stop his head from twisting round as sharply as it would have done naturally, but Mycroft still noticed the fingers of his right hand clench into a fist. He grinned triumphantly, but didn’t say anything more. Miss Forthwright returned to the table and sat down on Mycroft’s opposite side, taking his hand with a fluttery giggle. Sherlock interpreted his brother’s lack of an introduction as a decline to participate in any further conversation and turned to his empty plate. The food materialising before his neighbours looked delicious, but his stomach felt like there was a porcupine living in it, and he still hadn’t found where John was sitting. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was going to do when he found him. Profess undying love? Of course not, that would be ridiculous. But then, what _was_ he going to do. . .?

  “Sherlock?”

  The sound of his name made him look round – Molly was standing right behind him. Her brown hair had a new soft curl to it, and her robes were the palest spring green. _Pretty_ , Sherlock thought briefly.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asked, glancing at his fellow table-mates – Mycroft and other such Ministry dignitaries. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

  “I changed my mind,” Sherlock said, offering no other explanation. “You’re here with Lestrade, I take it.”

  She blushed and glanced over to a table at the centre of the room. Sherlock’s stomach gave an involuntary jump to see John sitting there with Lestrade, who was scanning the room for his absent date. John looked thoroughly miserable, and seemed to be making a supreme effort to look anywhere but at the champions’ table. As one, Sherlock and Molly’s gazes turned to the top table, where Diggory was talking with Cho Chang. He looked politely interested in what she was saying, but even a moron could see he wasn’t really engaged.

  Molly sighed. “I’d better get back to the table,” she said. “Does John know you’re here?”

  “No,” Sherlock said, glancing at Mycroft, who was flirting sycophantically with Miss Forthwright and didn’t notice. “Don’t tell him. I’ll find him later.”

  Molly looked a little suspicious, but returned to her table with an agreement that she wouldn’t tell John of Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock wondered if she knew. She must. She must suspect, in any case. Molly Hooper might be many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. For all Sherlock’s knowledge, _John_ might even know, and this evening’s plans would just confirm what Mycroft had been trying to prove for all these years – that he was the stupid Holmes brother. Still, he had to try.

  When everyone had had their fill of food, people started migrating towards the dance-floor, The Weird Sisters stepped out onto the stage to tumultuous applause from those who had grown up listening to their music, and the champions and their partners were taking their places to lead the dance. Sherlock looked for John amongst the rabble, and finally spotted him, still with Molly and Lestrade. Molly seemed to be trying to persuade him to dance, but John was shaking his head, motioning towards the great wooden doors that led out into the grounds.

  _Perfect,_ Sherlock thought, and began to weave his way through the crowd, keeping just out of John’s sight as he approached the Entrance Hall. They were the only ones headed this way, so he waited until John had actually left the castle before hastily following him. He didn’t even look back to see if anyone saw them go, though he had a suspicion that, if anyone was, they’d be caught in a dance with Cho Chang right now.

  He opened the door as quickly and quietly as he could, looking about to see in which direction John had gone. He could just about see the back of his sandy-blond head heading down one of the fairy-lit paths by the lake. Sherlock wasn’t a great lover of pretty or sparkly things, but even he had to admit that the grounds looked nice. A curly metal rail had been erected along the side of the lake, and he could see John lean against it, gazing into the black depths of the water, his shoulders slumped. Sherlock’s insides felt like lava, but it was now or never.

oOoOo

John didn’t know why he’d bothered coming to the Ball tonight. He felt like a perfect masochist – an entire evening spent watching Cedric making fake googly-eyes at Cho, while she pined after Harry. Misery all round, Merry Christmas everyone! His feelings felt like a swarm of angry bees caught in a net. He supposed his reasoning was that it would be a shame to waste his dress robes, since his parents had forked out specially for him to get them. Even Molly’s presence wasn’t a comfort – he knew she was worried about him and he hated the thought that he was ruining her evening with Greg.

  As he looked out across the frozen lake, he wondered what Sherlock was doing. Studying in Ravenclaw Tower? Roaming the school? Sleeping in a corner of the Library? Wherever he was, John would rather have been with him than out in the cold night air, lamenting over his scrambled love-life. Ex love-life. Sherlock had been extraordinarily pleasant to John as of late – he was sure he’d be happy to see him if John could track him down.

  “John.”

  For a moment, John thought his imagination had grown so vivid he could conjure up Sherlock’s voice from thin air, but when he turned his head it was his real best friend standing beside him. His breath caught in his throat – Sherlock looked amazing. Expensive-looking tailored dress robes, black, with a silk grey shirt and cravat underneath. His hair was just as curled and unruly as ever, but it did nothing to detract from the classiness of his outfit. John wondered briefly when he’d acquired them, as right up to yesterday he’d been insisting he would not be attending the Ball tonight. He pushed that thought aside as Sherlock walked towards him, his eyes fixed on John’s.

  “I was worried about you,” he said. He sounded calm, though his fingers were worrying at the hems of his sleeves. With no pockets to hide them in, the nervousness in the movement was noticeable.

  “I’m fine,” John said, and tried for a smile. It was surprisingly easy, considering – it was nice to see Sherlock’s face right now. Sherlock’s everything, really. That old spark of attraction fluttered inside John, but he didn’t try to suppress it. It was nice to have any distraction from the memory of his last conversation with Cedric. This feeling was so familiar to John that he embraced it without resistance, like the recovered memory of a semi-forgotten tune.

  “Something’s happened,” Sherlock said. It was a statement – it always was with him.

  “Yeah,” John dipped his eyes back to the lake. He saw something darting about beneath its frozen surface, a glimpse of an aquatic-looking face. “Cedric and me—”

  “I.” Sherlock interrupted, then winced as though he regretted it.

  “S’okay,” John said, beyond caring about Sherlock’s constant need to correct people’s grammar. “Cedric and I, then. . . well, we had a fight.”

  “Oh?” Although John knew Sherlock would have already guessed this, he appreciated the Ravenclaw for giving him the chance to say it at his own speed.

  “He. . .” John shook his head. “D’you mind if I don’t? You’ve probably got a pretty accurate idea about what’s happened, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s just say you’re probably right.”

  “Alright.”

  They sat down on a stone bench a little way along the path, and for a minute there was silence between them. The sound of the music drifted down from the castle, and Sherlock found his foot tapping to the rhythm. He liked music – it was one of the few frivolities in life he genuinely found pleasure in.

  “Molly looks nice tonight, doesn’t she?” John said.

  “Yes, she does,” Sherlock nodded, his eyes drawn to John’s profile – the way his nose was a little bit too long for the rest of his face, remembering the way his lips moved in a pursed pout when he was concentrating or annoyed. John smirked.

  “What?” Sherlock asked.

  “No snide comments?” John’s gaze turned towards him. “No quips?”

  “No,” Sherlock said, a little affronted. Was he really _that_ mean normally? “She genuinely looks nice.”

  “Well,” John sighed, leaning back on his hands. “That’s a first. Did you tell her?”

  “Of course not,” Sherlock said. Ah, there it was.

  “Of course not,” John echoed. “That would be a compliment. Not so good with those, are you? Ah well, least you can say it to me, if not to her.”

  “Oh, what a disappointment, my disguise of a complete bastard is shattered,” Sherlock said dryly.

  “You’re not a _complete_ bastard,” John said, earning himself a nudge in the ribs. “You’re just. . . you.”

  “Synonymous, surely,” Sherlock smirked, and was relieved to see a real smile returned. He’d missed those, back from before all this mess started.

  The music inside changed from a fast beat to something slower, something that Sherlock knew called for every student to pull their partner close. On a whim, he got to his feet and held a hand out to John.

  “Shall we dance?” he said in answer to John’s confused expression.

  John chuckled. “You can’t dance,” he said.

  “I can.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “I can!” Sherlock sounded a little indignant now. “I’ve have lessons.”

  John looked incredulous. “ _You_ had dance lessons? Alright,” he moved to a standing position and took Sherlock’s hand, “show me. Are you the woman or am I the woman?”

  Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John laughed. “Okay, I’m the woman. Right.” He placed one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and moved the other against his fingers in the correct arrangement. Sherlock took a deep breath and concentrated on the rhythm of the waltz.

  “What’re you waiting for?” John asked.

  “Shut up, I’m counting,” Sherlock said, then he nodded. “Now.”

  “Ow, that was my foot!”

  “You’re not doing it right!”

  “Slow down and show me, then.”

  “Look, like this,” he nudged John’s foot with his own shoe and they began to turn on the spot. “And look at me. You dance with your feet, not your eyes – feel the rhythm with your feet.”

  “Shall I smell the words with my ears while I’m at it?”

  “Do you want to dance, or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well shut up, then.”

  It took a few more steps, haltingly at first, but then, before John knew it, he was dancing. _They_ were dancing, together, and it seemed natural. They moved quite well together, though the concentration on Sherlock’s face was quite funny.

  Sherlock's heart was beating faster than the music. The amused delight in John’s eyes was more than his emotions could handle at that moment. He wanted this moment to be perfect, but it was proving increasingly more difficult the more John smiled at him, glancing down at this feet to keep their movement in check. His gaze must have been more intense than he realised, as John’s grin faltered little when he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's again.

  “You okay?” he asked, slowing the dance to a stop, but he didn’t let go of Sherlock's hand. He couldn’t have if he’d wanted to – Sherlock was griping his fingers so tightly. He was barely blinking, his pale eyes just staring into John’s darker ones. He took a step closer, moving his hand from John’s waist to his back, and was satisfied to see a look of scarcely-suppressed amazement cross his face. He let go of John’s hand, and felt it fall, rather heavily, onto his other shoulder.

  “Sherlock,” John said, his voice a little tremulous. “What’re you doing?”

  Sherlock didn’t answer, but slowly raised his hand to hold John’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it higher so as to give him perfect access to his perfect, parted lips. Perhaps this was the best way. He may love the sound of his own voice – or so he’d been told – but in this moment, right now, he knew there was a better way of telling him. He focused every ounce of his concentration on making sure his hand, or any other part of his body, wasn’t trembling as he lowered his head towards John’s. Their lips met—

  “This way,” a gruff voice spoke from the shadowed path just behind them. “There’s a bench jus’ down ‘ere, we can sit for a while.”

  “Shit,” Sherlock ducked and tugged John out of sight behind a large statue of a reindeer. John didn’t resist. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He’d forgotten how. What was his name again?

  “Come on,” Sherlock muttered and, avoiding Hagrid and Madame Maxime – walking arm-in-arm down the path – they made a hasty retreat back up towards the castle. Sherlock was inwardly cursing himself for not being quicker, and the pair of half-giants who had interrupted the moment. Could he try again, or was it gone? He didn’t know. No wait, there was Snape and Karkaroff leaving the castle – definitely not the most romantic of audiences.

  “Sherlock.”

  He felt John’s fingers on the sleeve of his robes and looked down at him. He felt embarrassed, foolish, and wasn’t prepared for the expression of confusion and desperation that greeted him in John’s eyes. He kept his own face passive.

  “I have feelings for you, John,” he said quietly. It wasn’t how he’d wanted it to happen, but there was no backtracking on what he’d been about to do, and would have done, had they not been stopped.

  “Feelings,” John seemed a little stunned, incomprehensible of Sherlock's meaning.

  “Yes.” Normal people may have smiled, looked hopeful, done anything other than this monotonic delivery. “I know this isn’t the best time or place. But I thought you should know.”

  Good grief, he sounded like he was announcing a change in classroom timetables. At least smile, he told himself. No, that wasn’t going to work. He always looked like a Cheshire cat when he faked-smiled. A Cheshire cat on drugs. This wasn’t going the way he’d wanted, and he turned to leave.

  “Sh— no, wait, Sherlock!” the desperation in John’s voice made him pause. He stopped, but didn’t turn around, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “You said,” John seemed to be having trouble speaking. “You said. . . before. . .”

  “I know what I said,” Sherlock snapped. _Calm down_ , he told himself. _Can’t_ , he replied. “I know, and I was wrong.” He wheeled around, his robes swirling like a cape. “Do you want that again? _I was wrong_. I was stupid. I _am_ stupid. Mycroft always said it, guess he was right. I don’t know how to do this, John – I don’t think I ever will. What I _do_ know is that every single moment I’ve seen you with that stupid Hufflepuff hero has been complete repugnant to me. I hate it. I hate that he makes you smile instead of me. I hate that he’s a better person than I ever will be, and there’s nothing I can do about it even if I tried. You’re the only thing I’ve ever really cared about, John, and—”

  He couldn’t say anything more after that, once John had pulled the front of his robes and pressed their lips together in an inescapable lock. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock put his arms around John and was holding him so tightly he could barely breathe. He had never kissed anybody before, knew nothing of what he was supposed to do. His mouth was all teeth and his hands were all thumbs and he kept his eyes wide open, as if it was the only way he could believe this was actually happening. His chest was too narrow a cavity to possibly contain his heart, he was alive in a way he never could have imagined, just by the sensation of John’s kiss.

oOoOo

Inside the doors of the Great Hall, Cedric stared blankly out at the scene unfolding at the foot of the slope leading down to the grounds. He saw the look of unbridled joy masked across John’s face as he pulled his mouth away from Sherlock’s and rested his forehead against his shoulder. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before resting his hands on John’s back, closing his eyes and burying his nose and mouth in John’s hair.

  For a moment, Cedric wanted to punch something – Sherlock, if possible – but he stopped himself. No, he told himself. That wasn’t fair. He’d proved himself unworthy of John’s affections. John was right – he was a coward. Too cowardly to admit to his father that he wasn’t perfect, that he wasn’t everything he’d hoped he would be. His regard for his father’s good favour outweighed his feelings for John, and he could never expect John to forgive that – nor should John have to. John deserved to be with somebody who wasn’t afraid to admit his feelings, somebody his own age. Sherlock wasn’t afraid of anything, he didn’t care what people thought. In many ways, Sherlock Holmes was a better person than Cedric – the Golden Boy of Hufflepuff – could ever hope to be. Who’d have guessed?

  Taking one last look at the expression of serene happiness on John’s face, Cedric smiled sadly and turned back to the Great Hall. Cho was waiting for him.    

             

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! Many apologies for the late delivery on this chapter! I’ve been trying desperately to get it finished, since I’ve got so many plans for the next three books, which I hope you’ll all love. The next chapter after this one will be the last for Goblet of Fire, so I’ve left this one on a bit of a cliff-hanger. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, and I will be back with you as soon as I can (MUCH sooner than last time, I promise!). Thank you!

It was June 24th, the first tentative air of summer slowly creeping into the castle grounds. The euphoria surrounding the aftermath of the Second Triwizard Task was slowly beginning to fade into what the third and final Task might entail. So far they’d had dragons, grindylows and merfolk – what possible danger could face the champions next? Students outside of Slytherin House, even some begrudging Hufflepuffs, now seemed to wholeheartedly accept Harry as a real contender alongside Cedric to win Hogwarts a victory. Indeed, it seemed that Harry had almost as many fangirls as Cedric had, after his performance with the Horntail and his chivalrous display down in the lake.

  John had only found out about that afterwards from Molly, since the moment Harry’s head had breached the surface, flanked by Ron and Fleur Delacour’s sister, he’d felt Sherlock's fingers tugging persistently at his elbow, an awkwardly suggestive smile inviting John to more interesting activities.

  Any normal fourteen year old boy with Sherlock’s looks and stature could easily use his attributes to the advantage of seducing the trousers right off John’s legs. But Sherlock wasn’t quite normal. His first approach to their newfound mutual affection had been to completely shut out the prospect of it having happened at all. To an outsider this may have come across as a rejection, but John knew Sherlock too well by this point to mistake it for that. Having displayed such blatant romantic advances the night before, John could guess that Sherlock had used most of his yearly quota of sentimentality in one fell swoop, and was unsure of what the next appropriate action was. John didn’t press him, happy as he was for his deepest desire in the universe to have come true. He had once more entered that exciting realm of ‘what next’. That wonderful land of when the next kiss would be, when he would next get to touch Sherlock’s skin, and that fantastically smug feeling that, over everyone in the school, _he –_ John Watson, Gryffindor nobody – was the one to finally crack through Sherlock Holmes’s marble exterior into the crevices of his heart.

  Over the next couple of weeks, John had started to make delicate advances. A hand-brush here, a loving smile there. The floodgates had crashed open and he was happy to let whatever rush of affection spread across his face without having to dampen it. The first time they’d held hands, Sherlock hadn’t even looked at him. He’d just grabbed John’s hand with a force of a vice and stared straight ahead, his entire countenance like he’d had a run-in with a basilisk. But then, slowly, he’d began to loosen up. He might place his hand on the small of John’s back as they walked to the Great Hall for breakfast, or casually link his fingers through John’s while they were studying in the Library. Finally, they had been saying goodnight to each other before Sherlock went back to Ravenclaw Tower, and Sherlock had kissed him again. Not like the frantic, urgent way like at the Ball, but softly, tentatively, in a way that still made John’s heart dance to think about it.

  Cedric was one thing he’d been trying _not_ to think about. Not because it distracted him from Sherlock – nothing could – but because it filled him with that hot embarrassment one can only feel when thinking of a bad break-up. They didn’t speak, and if they happened to pass in the corridor, John would pretend not to have noticed. He felt bad about it, but the alternative was too awkward. Besides, it seemed that Cedric was doing alright for himself. He and Cho had been inseparable since the Ball – holding hands in the corridors and spending every available moment together. John wondered if perhaps this was what Cedric really wanted. Maybe he had been an experimental stepping-stone, and now Cedric was free, he was ready to move on to a proper relationship. While this did hurt John somewhat, there was also a faint element of relief that softened the guilt he felt at being with someone else so soon. Not that Sherlock was just ‘someone’. And at least now, John thought a little bitterly, Cedric could be with someone his father would approve of. Cho was pretty, smart, charming and, most importantly, a girl.

  So John tried to put the whole mess behind him and focus on what was happening right now. When he looked at the bigger picture, it seemed that everything was pretty sweet – he was with Sherlock, Molly was with Greg, Cedric appeared happy enough, and the whole school with buzzing with spring vigour.

  It was a crisp, cloudless day, and the first hopeful daffodil buds had began to sprout along the lake bank. Under their old favourite tree, John and Sherlock had been enjoying the last minutes of privacy before afternoon lessons started. John was beginning to realise that Sherlock could be quite the seductive partner, even if he didn’t realise the extent to which he was doing it. He used his deduction skills and elephantine memory to store knowledge on the exact areas of John’s body (that they’d explored) that could drive him to distraction. They had not gone so far as John had with Cedric, but John was okay with that. Besides, he was learning that lips or fingers on the most innocent of places could cause enough pleasure to be going on with. He’d discovered that he just had to breathe on the crook of Sherlock's shoulder and the Ravenclaw’s brow would furrow in a most pleasing way. Likewise, Sherlock often took great advantage of the fact that John adored having his back gently scratched.

  “Holmes! Watson!”

  The two boys practically sprang apart, Sherlock almost catapulting himself into the lake. There was a burst of laughter and John felt a heavy slug on his arm.

  “Your face!” Greg chuckled, while an accompanying Molly shook her head despairingly at the grinning Hufflepuff.

  “Please remind me what attractive qualities you see in this oaf?” Sherlock grumbled, brushing the grass stains from his robes.

  “My dashing good looks and roguish charm, of course,” Greg dropped a wink at Molly, who just rolled her eyes with a smile and tugged on his sleeve. As they headed back towards the castle, she looked over her shoulder and aimed another smile at John. He didn’t think he’d never seen her look happier, and it filled him with a warm glow.

oOoOo

Sherlock was, for the first time in his life, happy.

  In his fourteen years, he’d known excitement, exhilaration, and even jubilation, all through the solving of a particularly difficult mystery or puzzle. But never before had he experienced such an emotion as this. It was like somebody had lit a cauldron in his stomach and left it to simmer comfortably, the heat rising to a boil if he was touching John. Once he may have attributed this to some dreadful malady – the first symptoms of dragon pox, for example – but he was quickly beginning to learn the meanings of these new sensations. When he’d been forced to endure John waltzing around with Diggory, it had been like his stomach was knotted tight, or something was constricting his heart. Occasionally those feelings would resurface, mostly on Wednesdays and Fridays, when he and John had the least amount of classes together, but just the sight of John’s broad grin would loosen the knots and he’d begin to feel normal again. Or as normal as he could be.

  He also found himself continually distracted, his thoughts always migrating steadily towards images of John or reliving conversations they’d had. Most often, he found himself imagining that night at the Yule Ball, when he’d scraped what little courage he’d had to confess his feelings. The warm embarrassment he felt at that particular memory was new, too. Not exactly the confession you might find in great romantic literature, wizarding or otherwise.

  Now, awkward as he was, Sherlock wasn’t a complete social novice, even if more in theory than practice. He and John were both boys, which he knew was fine, but he also knew that there were certain pleasures that males of John’s . . . persuasion liked to partake in. Under a self-administered Disillusionment charm, he’d explored the Personal Health section of the Library, peering in the pages of various sexual information booklets. While they didn’t divulge anything particularly graphic, he got the basic idea. And he wasn’t sure he liked it. He knew for a fact that he wasn’t gay. Nor was he heterosexual. It was just John – only John. It was like he was . . . John-sexual, for lack of a better term. But the thought of doing those things, or having those things done to him, well – it frightened him. He knew John was kind and would never push him to do anything he didn’t want to, but the nagging worry was still there.

  These thoughts turned his brain into a sinkhole of scrambled wonderings. He didn’t like it, but the alternative of a clear head and an emotionless heart now seemed distant to him, like a life he’d watched someone else live. He kept reminding himself that he and John were only fourteen – two years below the legal age. A lot could happen in two years – he could learn to want John’s body as much as his heart, or John could leave him. The latter thought was far more chilling than Sherlock thought it would be. He recalled those long moments he’d spent alone in the boys’ showers, all the little stolen fantasies that now seemed a lot more daunting now they were looming on the horizon.

  But despite all of this, he didn’t think he could go back to how he’d been before. Now he knew what it felt like to want someone, and be wanted in return, the prospect of being alone again filled him with fear. When did he allow himself to become so compromised?

  _Well,_ he reminded himself, _it’s either this or end up like Mycroft._

  He was heading slowly down to breakfast, these thoughts swilling through his brain, the rest of the crowd overtaking him. The anticipation surged like electricity through the air, the conversation abuzz with speculation as to what difficult and dangerous obstacles the champions would be facing that evening.

  As he turned the corner, he found himself met with three unpleasantly familiar faces.

  “Hey, Freak,” Donovan’s grinned maliciously, and beside her Anderson sniggered, his weaselly face pinched in a sneer. However, Sherlock paid no attention to them – they were hardly worth his acknowledgement – his eyes instead fixed on their ringleader.

  “How’s it going, Shirley-boy?” said Moriarty, his lips tilted in a derisive smirk. Sherlock, rather glad he was a head taller than all three of the Slytherins, simply arched a sardonic eyebrow and moved to sidestep them. Anderson leaped to block his path and Sherlock calmly withdrew his wand.

  “No magic in the halls, Freak,” the Slytherin reminded him, his bullying bravado broken slightly by the nervous glances at Sherlock’s hand.

  “What an imaginative nickname you’ve coined for me, Anderson,” Sherlock said, running his fingers idly up the length of his wand. “Almost as original as when Donovan first said it.”

  “You’re such a weirdo,” Donovan scoffed.

  “Oh, even better,” Sherlock said. “Nobody’s called me that for years. I was almost starting to miss it.”

  “Get out of it, _Holmes_ ,” Anderson added, as if even Sherlock’s surname was some kind of derogatory slur.

  “Believe me, I’m trying,” Sherlock said. “But you’re standing in my way.”

  Moriarty, who had been watching this exchange with amusement, spoke again:

  “Been having fun with your little Gryffindor friend?”

  Sherlock looked at him with contempt. He’d been waiting for some jibe regarding John – he was surprised Moriarty had waited so long to deliver one.

  “Only I’ve been noticing you’ve been spending more time with him than you have been lately. Diggory let you borrow him for the week, did he?”

  “If you really wanted just wanted to taunt me,” Sherlock said, “why bother letting these two cretins tag along? They really don’t do much for your image. Malfoy’s thugs give off a much greater air of intelligence – perhaps you could ask to borrow _them_?”

  Anderson glared at this insult and looked to Moriarty, almost like he was expecting his leader to defend his intellect. Sherlock would almost have felt sorry for him, were he not so ridiculous. Moriarty simply extended his smile, eyes glittering with laughing malice.

  Sherlock sighed. “Look, is this _really_ necessary this early in the morning? Breakfast, and all that. You could do with some, Donovan – I’ve heard a healthy diet is good for body development, especially if you’re lacking in certain proportions.” He knew it was beneath him to resort to insults based on appearances, but he was rather starting to lose patients with the three clowns.

  Donovan’s face reddened in fury, and she whipped her own wand out from inside her robes, firing a poorly-aimed jinx at Sherlock, while he stepped calmly aside to avoid it. He pointed his own wand back at her and thought fiercely _Expelliarmus_. He’d been practicing non-verbal spells for a while now, and to his satisfaction, Donovan’s wand went sailing from her grip into Sherlock’s hand.

  Sherlock did not want a full-scale fight – he was surprisingly hungry for so early in the morning, plus someone would eventually hear the sounds of duelling and they would all find themselves subjected to the mercy of Filch, or worse – Professor McGonagall. He casually threw Donovan’s wand over his shoulder, where it clattered to the foot of a statue, and when Donovan broke ranks to retrieve it, he darted through the empty space to freedom, leaping in the air to avoid the tripping jinx Anderson sent after him. They didn’t follow him as he ran – Moriarty probably considered it beneath his dignity to break a sweat in such a way, but Sherlock knew he’d have to watch his back from now until the end of term. He was by no means afraid of Donovan and Anderson, but Moriarty was trickier, far cleverer, and would undoubtedly concoct some humiliating revenge against him.

  He made it to the Great Hall with no further obstacles, and managed to grab a couple of slices of toast before the golden dishes cleared and everyone headed out towards their first classes. Everyone, that is, except the champions, who were to greet their families before the final challenge. He watched Potter follow Cedric with a dubious look on his face. No doubt he was perplexed as to the thought of his Muggle relatives (of whom Sherlock had never heard Potter say a good word) waiting to greet him. Sherlock supposed it would be a couple of Weasley’s relatives, and wondered why Potter didn’t guess this for himself. He looked down to mention this to John, but stopped when he saw John’s gaze fixed on Cedric, right up until he vanished through the door of the side chamber. He then realised Sherlock was watching him and his face flushed. The happy cauldron in Sherlock’s stomach spat and coughed. John hastily took hold of Sherlock’s hand and pulled him out of the Great Hall. They didn’t speak of what they were both thinking about as they said a secret goodbye in the shadows beneath the grand stairway, before John went off to his History of Magic final exam, and Sherlock went off to his for Transfiguration.

oOoOo

As Sherlock filled out his Transfiguration exam paper, he did his best to block out the nagging voice at the back of his head that was constantly reminding him of his sudden doubts. In a desperate attempt to quieten it, he tried mutely singing a song to himself, something he’d never done in his life. Unfortunately, the only one he could bring to mind was one John had taught him during their third summer holiday – something called ‘I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts’, and by the end of the test, he was struggling to think of anything else.

  He hummed his way through the Herbology exam, in which he successfully pruned a Venomous Tentacula without sustaining any scratches or strangulation, potted a Mandrake without fainting, and ended the test with an internal blast of “singing roll-a-bowl a ball, a penny a piiiiiiiitch!” He returned to the Great Hall for lunch in a rather hot-tempered mood, not in any way lessened when Cedric and his parents waltzed in and sat down just a short distance away at the Hufflepuff table. Sherlock observed Amos Diggory with unabashed curiosity. He’d heard something of him from Mycroft – that he worked for the Department for the Care and Control of Magical Creatures, was rather pompous, and (this nugget of knowledge came from Sherlock’s own mental bank) was partially the reason John and Cedric had split up. He kept clapping Cedric on the back and very loudly proclaiming his pride for his son, while Cedric’s mother gently patted her son’s hand with a reassuring smile. Cedric didn’t look particularly excited, Sherlock noted – his cheeks were pale and his hand was clutching his fork rather tighter than was necessary. Sherlock wondered if it was the daunting thought of the Third Task or the presence of his over-bearing father that was causing this.

  The afternoon flitted by quite quickly, with Sherlock only paying semi attention to his last two exams – History of Magic and Defence Against the Dark Arts. The evening drew closer and people started glancing at the clock, eagerly anticipating when classes would finished and they would all join in the final feast before the final Task was to begin. Cedric wasn’t the only one looking nervous now – Potter didn’t eat much and Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum were both looking pale, but determined.

  “Sherlock,” John said in a low voice, and Sherlock looked across at him. His face was anxious and Sherlock’s stomach jumped as John took his hand under the table. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  Sherlock gave a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t even thought about it.

  “I wasn’t. . . I didn’t mean. . .” John sighed. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried,” Sherlock replied, too quickly, attacking his chicken pie more viciously than it deserved. “Your gaze can wander wherever you choose.”

  “It’s not wandering anywhere,” John stroked the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb. “It’s. . . it’s just awkward, you know?”

  Sherlock laid down his fork and stared at the table. He knew John wanted him to trust him. Perhaps he should. Is that what normal people did? He tried for a smile, which came out rather feeble, but John seemed slightly mollified by it.

  Once the feast was over, Dumbledore rose to his feet and asked all the students and guests to make their way to the Quidditch stadium, while the champions were to follow Ludo Bagman. It was coincidental that Sherlock happened to glance over at Cedric at this moment, but when he did, he realised Cedric was trying to get his attention. He widened his eyes as Sherlock’s met them, and mouthed “wait a minute”. Sherlock turned to John.

  “You go ahead,” he said. “Just need to speak to Flitwick about something.”

  John headed off with the other Gryffindors, and Sherlock held back from the crowd as Cedric made his way over to him. His parents, busy talking with a couple of Cedric’s friends, didn’t seem to notice.

  “Sherlock,” Cedric’s voice was eager and hurried. He rummaged in the pocket of his robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment, folded in half, handing it to Sherlock. It had John’s name written on one side. “I know this is stupid to ask you, but after the Task is over, could you give this to John?”

  “Why?” Sherlock said, trying to force the letter back into his hand. “Get Molly or Lestrade to do it.”

  “Sherlock,” Cedric said again, more urgently. “Please. It’s not a. . . a love letter or anything. Just an apology. Please.”

  Sherlock looked into the older boy’s handsome, earnest face, and grudgingly took the letter back.

  “Thank you.” Cedric turned to go, but stopped. “Sherlock. . .” he looked a little embarrassed. “If something happens to me. . . not that it will, but if it does. . . and even if it doesn’t. . . damn it.” He shook his head. “Promise me you’ll make John happy.”

  “What?” Sherlock was shocked at the request.

  “Make him happy. Make him the happiest person alive. I’m just sorry I wasn’t man enough to do it. But he deserves someone who. . . who won’t do what I did. If you do nothing else in your life, do that.”

  “No pressure, then.”

  “None at all,” Cedric almost managed a smile, but not quite. “Thank you.”

  As he hurried back over to his parents, giving them a quick hug goodbye before following the other champions, Sherlock thought he was being rather over-dramatic. Still. . . He glanced down at the letter in his hand, and almost lifted the flap to read the neat handwriting, but stopped himself, and put it in his pocket.

  It took a while for him to find John and the others once he reached the Quidditch stadium. The pitch itself, normally so smooth, was now weaved with hedges, interlocking and criss-crossing, stretching out like a vine of ivy. It was the most complicated maze Sherlock had ever seen – it would have taken him a while to navigate it from above, let alone inside it like the champions would have to. Add in the obstacles, and he wondered if this would perhaps he the most difficult challenge yet, even without dragons and underwater respiration.

  The champions entered, one by one, and the crowd’s noise died down to wait. _Really,_ Sherlock thought, _next time they do this, they should devise some way of allowing the spectators to actually see the sport_. As it was, they just had to wait, while Bagman gave them a summary of how the champions had fared in the last two challenges. A couple of people had brought books to keep themselves occupied, and Sherlock was starting to wish he’d thought of that idea. About twenty minutes into the challenge, a bright flare of red sparks erupted from somewhere in the south-west of the maze, and Professor Flitwick hastily entered to rescue whoever it was who was in trouble. Once Fleur Delacour’s unconscious form had been retrieved, Bagman called, “That’s one champion out of the running, and we are now left with Mr. Diggory, Mr. Krum, and Mr. Potter!”

  Beneath their robes, John linked his fingers through Sherlock’s and let out a long breath. Sherlock knew he was concerned about Cedric’s safety, even if his feelings weren’t as they’d been before, and he heard Cedric’s voice in his head saying _“if something happens to me. . .”_. Nothing _could_ happen, could it? They’d taken precautions to make as certain as they could that none of the champions would be in any life-threatening danger, hadn’t they? And Cedric was clever – he knew his stuff. He’d be fine.

  The minutes stretched into hours, and by the time night had truly fallen, quite a few people in the crowd had fallen asleep – including Lestrade, his head resting on Molly’s shoulder, while she yawned and glanced at her watch.

  “Who d’you reckon’s gonna win?” she asked Sherlock, who jerked out of a light doze against the bench behind him. He shrugged sleepily and stretched his legs.

  Suddenly, a loud popping sound filled the magically magnified stadium, and two figures appeared at the entrance to the maze. One was Harry, his clothes torn and bloody. The other was—

  Sherlock was rarely taken by surprise, but in this instance, he gasped.

  Cedric.

  He was lying beside Harry – whose hands were tightly gripped in the material of his shirt – his face white, his eyes open and staring, blankly, at the sky. Sherlock only seen a dead body once before, but he knew there was no mistaking it. His stomach plummeted to the soles of his shoes, and felt the hand holding his fall from his grasp.

oOoOo

John couldn’t breathe.

  His chest felt like it was being constricted, his stomach was being wrenched from side to side like a ragdoll in a dog’s mouth, and all moisture had evaporated from his mouth and throat. All around people were crying out, repeating those words that simply could not be true.

  _“Cedric Diggory, dead!”_

  No.

  No.

  It wasn’t true. How could it be? Cedric had been walking into that maze just a few hours ago. He’d been fine – walking, talking, breathing, alive. Alive. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be. Why would he be? He’d never do that.

  John’s mind was spinning, or was that the world? The hedges and seats and other people were sliding out of focus, and his tongue felt funny. He barely registered the noises of protest and people hastily moving away as he leaned forward and vomited onto the bench between his feet. People were screaming now. Screaming Cedric’s name, and above all of the voices a single one could be heard.

  “MY SON! MY SON!”

  Amos Diggory was holding Cedric’s body like a drowning man at a lifebelt, shaking his son’s shoulders like he could wake him from this deep sleep. Cedric’s mother was on her knees at Cedric’s head, her face a mask of hysterical tears. Professor Moody was leading Harry away from the mayhem, while Professor Dumbledore was conversing rapidly with Cornelius Fudge. John wanted to be down there too – he wanted to be with Cedric, to try and wake him up too, but there were so many people, and his legs felt like lead.

  A pair of arms wound themselves around his shoulders, and he turned into Sherlock’s chest to let out a long scream that tore at his throat and forced the tears from his eyes. His heart felt like it was being ripped in two by a pair of icy hands.

  Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were directing the crowd out of the stadium, while Dumbledore summoned a large sheet from thin air and draped it gently over Cedric’s body. All sound and vision was a blur as John let himself be led back up to the castle with the other students. He knew they’d never let him see Cedric’s body now – perhaps not ever. His father would undoubtedly reject the idea of his son’s former lover mourning him so privately. John crumpled in the middle and burst into fresh tears. He curled into a ball, not caring that everyone was staring at him, and let himself go completely. Sherlock crouched down beside him, and held him until it was over.   

 

    

  

          

 

 

 

  

             

          


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this chapter has been killing me trying to get it done! Life is an irritating distraction, so I apologise for the obscenely long delay. I somehow couldn’t get it right, so I hope the final result is okay. This is the end of Goblet of Fire, and I promise Order of the Phoenix will feature the Johnlock you probably clicked on this fic for, with Umbridge enforcing her own ideas about how boys should act. Thank you all for staying with me so far, and I hope you’ll continue to read. Please tell me what you think of the chapter – it helps me so much in evolving my skills and inspires me so much to continue. Love to all!

A slow breeze drifted across the surface of the lake, the late morning sun sifting through the trees, dappling the grass with golden light. The castle was reeling in the aftermath of the previous night’s events. John sat on the lake shore, legs pulled up to his chin, his arms folded across his knees. A series of ripples floated along the water in the wake of some creature moving beneath. The leaves rustled in their listless dance, and somewhere in the forest, a bird or other-such animal called. All around was brimming with life, yet John barely felt any of it.

  He’d slept fitfully and risen before any of the other boys. Sherlock was still asleep in the Common Room, his shirt open, one arm stretching towards the floor. He’d thought of waking him, but instead moved past and out of the Portrait Hole. He wanted to be alone for a while. He didn’t meet anyone as he made his way through the castle. A respectful silence seemed to have fallen over everything, as if the stone structure itself were mourning the passing of such a valued student. Filch had already unlocked the Entrance Hall doors to the grounds, and John slipped out with no-one there to stop him.

  The knot of barbed wire that had settled in John’s stomach the night before had loosened a little, replaced with a dull pain that gnawed consistently inside him. His mind was still in doubt of whether it had actually happened – it was just so sudden and so strange, it couldn’t possibly be true. One thing in particular was churning in his mind – the fact that Cedric had died thinking that John hated him. They’d never spoken again after that confrontation in North Tower, and there was nothing he could do to alter it. It was burned in history, unchangeable, just another point on the map of mistakes he’d made and would make throughout his life. He buried his face in his sleeve and whimpered in anguish, fresh tears spilling out of his eyes, dampening the fabric.

  He vaguely acknowledged the hand on his shoulder, and felt himself being gently pulled into the curve of a warm chest, a set of long fingers cupping the side of his head. He breathed in that familiar smell and let out a shuddering breath. For at least ten minutes, neither of them spoke, and John allowed himself to be held, somewhat awkwardly, until his sobs had subsided.

  “There is evidence to suggest that tears have a natural healing factor,” Sherlock said. John could feel the vibrations of his voice as they leaned into each other.

  “Whoever said that didn’t know shit,” he muttered, wiping his eyes on his robes and pulling himself back into an upright position.

  “You could be right.” Sherlock placed his hand beside John’s. He was dishevelled from sleep, his hair tangled and his robes creased. John thought he seemed nervous, like he wasn’t sure of the appropriate way to act in the case of bereavement. He was trying, though, and John loved him for that.

  “It hurts so much,” he said. “Everything feels like it’s about to fall apart.”

  Sherlock didn’t reply, he just reached out those long fingers and brushed John’s hand.

  “They’ll never let me see him,” John lamented.

  Another pause.

  “Do you really want to?” Sherlock asked.

  John looked at him. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  John sighed. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to fully comprehend the concept of grief and closure.

  “Have you ever seen a dead body before?” Sherlock said.

  It was such a strange and blunt question that John frowned and pulled away. There was a time and place for Sherlock’s kind of tactlessness, and he wasn’t in the mood for it now.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Sherlock sighed. “You shouldn’t see him.”

  “Oh really?” John glared. “Well, you obviously know everything about what I should and shouldn’t do. I probably shouldn’t have set my eyes on Cedric, like you said I shouldn’t. ‘Someone less obvious’, didn’t you say?”

  “Yes, and I was wrong.” Sherlock’s voice was so calm and reasonable that John looked round. Sherlock being reasonable, _and_ admitting he was wrong? Unheard of. “I was jealous without realising it, and didn’t want you near him. But that’s not what I meant. John – dead bodies don’t always look the way people think they do. When my father died, the Healers all tried to tell me how peaceful he looked and that he was in a better place. When I was allowed to see his body, I didn’t see any of that.”

  John wasn’t sure where this was headed. “What did you see?”

  Sherlock sighed and looked out across the lake. “Nothing. He wasn’t there anymore.”

  “They’d already taken him away?”

  “No, I mean _he_ was gone. It wasn’t _him_ anymore, just a lifeless thing with my father’s face. Like a mannequin. He didn’t look ‘asleep’ or ‘at peace’ or any of that poetic crap. There isn’t any poetry in death. He wasn’t breathing anymore, he was just gone. We were never really that close, but I wish now I’d never seen him. All the pride and character and that _strength_ he’d had when he was alive wasn’t there – he looked sad and weak. I wish I could have always remembered him as that scary man in our study, who always pushed me to be better even when I was just learning to walk and set intellectual challenges for me and Mycroft to compete against each other. At least then he had _presence_. Now all I remember is skin, bones and hair – everything that makes a body but not a person.”

  Sherlock’s eyes were dry, but there was a deep sadness in them that John didn’t think he’d seen before.

  “You didn’t see Diggory’s body properly last night – _you_ can still remember him as he was to you, however that was. If you see him, he won’t look the same, and that’s the most vivid memory you’ll have for years, if not longer. Even if you try and remember everything else he was, it’ll always come back to death. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.”

  John could see exactly why the Sorting Hat had placed Sherlock in Ravenclaw. Behind all that bravado and smug intelligence, he was wise beyond his years, and John knew he was right.

  Sherlock reached inside his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

  “Diggory gave me this before the Task last night,” he said. “He asked me to give it to you.”

  Placing the letter in John’s hand, he rose to his feet and headed off back to the castle. John turned the parchment over in his hands, staring at his name written in Cedric’s neat cursive script. Slowly, he lifted the flap.

_John,_

_I know a letter is the coward’s way out, but it seems to be the only way I can really say what I’m feeling. I can’t begin to apologise for how I treated you, when you trusted me and I kept throwing it back in your face. Guess I really am a coward, right? I can’t blame everything on my dad. Part of me just didn’t want to properly accept the truth about myself. You were always so much stronger than I was, you accepted everything and just worked with it. I always admired the hell out of you for that even before I fell in love with you._

  John pressed a hand over his mouth, but determinedly held back from crying again.

_I suppose that’s why you’re in Gryffindor and I’m not. I know it’s weird to say that I’m happy for you and Sherlock, but honestly I am. I know I could never give you what you wanted or deserved, but Sherlock’s always so damn brazen about everything I’m sure it wouldn’t matter to him!_

  John gave a short, tearful laugh.

  _At first I didn’t really get what you saw in him, but I understand now. He’s annoying and petulant and arrogant, but he’s loyal and honest and unashamed of who he is, everything I wish I could be. I just hope he knows how lucky he is. After this year, we might not see each other again for a while, and I wanted to end things amicably, and offer my apologies for how I behaved. Most importantly, from the bottom of my heart, I hope you and Sherlock will be happy together. You both deserve that, and perhaps one day I’ll muster some of your courage to be happy too._

_I know what I said was awful, but I honestly did love you, and I still do, though that’s my problem, not yours. I know you’ve had feelings for Sherlock for a long time, and I don’t want to come between you. Whatever happens, wherever we end up, I just want you to know I’ll never forget you._

_Thank you for everything._

_Cedric_

  John re-read the letter, absorbing every word, every stroke of ink. He wanted to remember Cedric’s last words to him, but he knew he couldn’t keep the letter. It was too personal and too dangerous – if the wrong kind of people got hold of it, it could damage Cedric’s reputation and memory. Sherlock was right – sometimes it was better to remember someone as how you knew them best. Cedric was a hero of the school, and he should stay that way. Cedric might not have cared, but John did. He tore off just a tiny fragment of the letter – the last section, with Cedric’s thanks and name. Nothing incriminating could come from that. The rest he burned with a quick _incendio_ spell, watching until the last curl of parchment was gone. He knew now that Cedric had really loved him, it hadn’t all been a lie or some twisted game. That was enough.

  The pain in his stomach had lessened from one of agony, to something like a melancholy sigh. The sorrow was still there, and he knew it would take a long time to heal, but it was less raw now – more like a steady stream than a blaze. Maybe there _was_ some poetry in death – death veiled in love, anyway.

  He sat there for a few more minutes, rolling the tiny scroll of parchment in his fingers, before stowing it safety away in his inside pocket and getting to his feet. He could see the beauty around him more clearly now – the sun now risen above the line of the trees, the soft ripples across the surface of the water. Cedric wouldn’t have wanted him to be miserable – he would have wanted him to go on noticing the good things in life, to learn that death could cause a shift, but not stop the entire world. At least not forever.

  He saw a small group of people leaving the castle as he approached the front steps, and recognised them as the Diggorys and Professor Dumbledore. Mrs. Diggory was clutching a handkerchief to her face, while Mr. Diggory held a comforting arm around her shoulders. John hesitated. He wanted to approach them, to say something, anything, about how sorry he was and how much he would miss Cedric. He didn’t know what they’d done with Cedric’s body, or how it would be transported, but that didn’t matter now. Before he could make a decision, Mrs. Diggory caught sight of him. She stared, taking in his appearance, before detaching herself from her husband and walking slowly over to him. Mr. Diggory didn’t move to follow – he had obviously also guessed who John was and didn’t trust himself to be civil to him. Mrs. Diggory stopped just in front of him and, to John’s surprise, gave him a watery smile.

  “Are you John?” she asked, and to which he nodded. Her eyes roamed his face. “You’re just as Cedric described you.”

  “He told you about me?” John blinked in amazement.

  She nodded. Her grey eyes – so like her son’s – were still shining with tears. “He spoke of you often. Not so much to Amos, but to me. You meant a great deal to him.”

  John felt a catch in his throat and tried to swallow. “Me too,” he croaked. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Mrs. Diggory.”

  She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You made him very happy, John. Thank you.”

  John stood and watched as Mrs. Diggory and her husband bid farewell to Professor Dumbledore and walked to the school’s boundaries, Disapparating just beyond the wrought iron gates. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and glanced up to see the headmaster standing beside him, his face sombre and kind.

  “Love,” the old wizard said sadly, “can be an insurmountable joy, and a heart-wrenching burden.”

  John nodded and rubbed his eyes dry.

oOoOo

In the days to come, Sherlock often found himself recalling the words of a famous Muggle wordsmith: “To weep is to make less the depth of grief.”

  He had always felt awkward around the tears of people he wasn’t close to or didn’t care about, and so spent most of the hours leading to the end of the year in the Library. Girls who, as far as he knew, hadn’t even _spoken_ to Cedric kept bursting into fits of hysterics at the drop of a hat, and it was the only place he could find solitude from their wailing. It was a nice reprieve for John, as well. John, who actually had reason to cry, had remained admirably calm and stoic. Sherlock knew better than to pester him for constant updates on his mental well-being, so he just kept a casual eye on him, proffering a comforting hand if he felt it necessary. Some may have thought this distant, but he trusted John to know him better than that.

  Molly and Lestrade visited them often, with news from the outside world. Apparently Potter was keeping his distance from everyone as well, choosing instead to hide away with Weasley and Granger. Sherlock didn’t blame him – if John was suffering, he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Potter, having actually seen Cedric murdered. Rumours that he had witnessed Lord Voldemort’s revival was flying through the school, and Sherlock for one was inclined to believe them. He couldn’t exactly call Potter one of his closest acquaintances, but he knew he was neither a liar nor an attention-seeker, especially with such a serious story. The thought that the most dangerous wizard ever to exist had risen to power again was enough to stop anyone in their tracks, but that wasn’t what was primarily worrying Sherlock right now. The problem would be how the Ministry would react to such allegations. He knew Cornelius Fudge’s nature from Mycroft – the man was bumbling and pompous, far too comfortable with his position, and would undoubtedly be quick to dismiss anything that might endanger that. He knew that Dumbledore would have already taken precautionary steps, but would it be enough? Could this really be the start of a Second Wizarding War?

  Sherlock shook his head and sighed, leaning back in his chair. Crucially important as it all was, he couldn’t quite bring himself to focus on it right now. He could allow himself just one more day of faked blissful ignorance.

oOoOo

  The last day of term dawned clear and blue-skied, and John dragged his packed trunk down to the Entrance Hall just in time to meet Molly and Greg at the foot of the great staircase. Molly smiled and Greg gave him a thump on the arm by way of a friendly greeting.

  The atmosphere inside the school seemed to have changed slightly since the speech Dumbledore had given at the end-of-year feast. Some people seemed almost uplifted by it, others confused, others rather unnerved. John, for one, felt somewhat apprehensive but thankful that the headmaster had acknowledged Cedric in such a way, as the kind and good person he had been. He may have imagined it, but he thought Dumbledore’s eyes had focused on him for a brief moment during the speech. It was a mystery as to exactly how much Dumbledore knew about what went on inside the castle, but it seemed like he knew something of what John and Cedric had meant to each other. John appreciated that, too.

  The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were leaving now. John noticed Greg gazing rather wistfully after the Beauxbatons girls as they descended the castle steps towards the great carriage waiting for them. He also spotted Harry and Ron talking with Viktor Krum near the front doors as the Durmstrang students also made their departure to the skeletal ship moored in the lake. John kept his eyes on Harry, while setting his trunk down to wait for Sherlock. Harry looked tired and a bit pale, but better in spirits than John had seen him the past few days. He’d occasionally contemplated speaking to Harry about Cedric, but had resisted. He’d probably had to relive the experience enough times, and John didn’t want to be the one to disrupt his recovery by asking him to do it again just for _his_ benefit. Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the exact details of how Cedric had died. It was like Sherlock said – better to remember him how he’d known him best.

  He caught sight of Sherlock at the top of the stairs behind a group of other Ravenclaws, Cho among them. While she might not have cared about Cedric in the exact same way he had, when their eyes had met in the corridors in the past few days, they’d shared some kind of silent understanding. Neither of them had spoken to the other about Cedric’s death. John didn’t specifically blame her for being the one everyone sympathised for, but it hadn’t been easy. He didn’t hate her, but he didn’t particularly want to talk to her either, and Cho seemed to understand that. It was probably selfish of him to think like that, but that was a guilt he was prepared to deal with.

  Sherlock politely pushed past Cho and her group of friends, descending quickly to John’s side. John wanted to take his hand, lean his head against his shoulder, but surrounded by so many people, he didn’t think Sherlock would like it. He hoped that one day soon they could go public with their new relationship, despite what the likes of Moriarty and Malfoy might say. He knew the current social climate wasn’t exactly enthusiastic towards people of their sexuality, but perhaps one day that wouldn’t matter.

  That day certainly wasn’t today, probably not tomorrow. But for now, in the throng of people crowding towards the Hogwarts Express, and home, nobody seemed to notice two boys holding hands.


End file.
